Flight From Ironheart IC

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7/Archpaladin Zousha

Morganna quirks an eyebrow at your introduction.

“That’s quite a mouthful. But then, I would expect no less from one of our paladin students. Still, I doubt you have the influence to halt this rebellion, and quite frankly boy you haven’t done enough yet to warrant my respect. Ander has both qualities, and so I will explain myself to him and him alone!”

At her side, Exarch Damont continues to chafe.

“Morganna, just let me –“

“Silence, Damont! I will not tell you again!”

Morganna turns away from her subordinate, molding her face out of anger and back into her serene confidence.

“Now, while I deign not to explain myself fully to you, allow me to answer your questions with a question of my own. What if the gods had broken their vows to us? What would you say if I could prove the gods committed treason against humanity? What would you do, paladin, upon learning that your every oath was hollow? And not because of anything you did, but because YOUR ENTIRE REASON D’ETAT IS A LIE!”

You notice that during this rant by Morganna, Damont has taken a step back and is now simply staring at her. Curiously, it would seem that not even Damont is entirely aware of what Morganna is talking about. As quickly as the summoned anger has appeared, however, it has faded from Morganna as she continues in a level tone.

“Now, I’m going to restate your options, Hondshioh. You have only two, there is no third option. You can either stand aside and allow me to speak with your leader to try and resolve this conflict peacefully, or you can stand your ground and become the first casualties of a war that will tear our beloved Church of Light apart.”

Morganna jabs a finger at you.

“Now choose paladin. But understand that there is more than just your own fate at stake here.”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

For several long moments, Arlan simply glares back at you, but then he reluctantly nods.

“I was told you might someday be attempting to contact the Baron, and if so I was to put you through immediately. He’s a rather busy man right now, what with his son’s upcoming marriage and all, so getting ahold of him might take some time. But I’ll renew this scrying spell when I manage to get him. Please wait right here, and don’t try anything else. Maintaining all the various wards around here is already a nightmare as is.”

Still grumbling at his choice of professions, Arlan severs the magical connection, his projected face melting away. Some time passes, and you can feel yourself growing more and more agitated. You doubted the war would be starting in the next five minutes, but you already didn’t want to do this, and sitting around doing nothing while waiting for the Baron to get back to you was even more aggravating.

Fortunately, the wait, although obnoxious, was not unbearably long, and soon enough Arlan’s face appeared again in the middle of your room.

“I have located the Baron. He has agreed to speak with you.”

Immediately Arlan’s face vanishes, to be replaced with a projected image of the Baron’s entire body – apparently he didn’t want his face magnified to be inspected in depth like Arlan’s.

“Ah . . . Sohssal, wasn’t it? I remember you from our brief contact after the Hierarch’s end. I understand you wished to speak with me – this communication spell is about as secure as it can be made, so short of me teleporting to wherever you are I’m afraid this will have to do. So what is it that you would like to talk about?”

It’s difficult to pick up visual cues from a projection – despite being a real-time depiction of a human being, there tended to be enough fuzziness in the image and enough smoothing over of subtle expressions to limit the amount of non-verbal clues. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain level of smugness about the Baron, as if he already knew what you were contacting him about.

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

One by one, you dispatch Arguile’s followers a second time, although not so easily now that they are more than just squishy bags of blood and meat. Still, you’re stronger than them, better than them, and so dispatch them all the same. But your victory comes with a price, and you find your battered body shuddering as it attempts to follow your commands, trying to regenerate and failing utterly to keep up with your new injuries. As such, it’s no surprise to anyone that Arguile’s wing blast sends you crumpling to the ground.

“It feels great, old “friend”. I have this brand new immortal body, and it literally pulses with the power within it!” Arguile says, effortlessly throwing Sara away from him. She has a moment to scream before she hits the ground hard, rolling after the impact to end up face down in the stream, motionless. Arguile doesn’t spare her another moment’s thought as he begins to walk towards you. As he moves, he fires off periodic wing blasts, keeping you pinned to the ground and slowly shredding your body apart. As the blasts penetrate through your struggling to repair armor, you can feel systems going offline as the power flowing to them is severed. None of the blasts hit your control or power crystals, although the images of angel Katashiko and demon Sara wink in and out of existence as your connection to their crystals becomes unstable. You realize that Arguile is deliberately avoiding a killing shot, clearly wanting to kill you up close as he slowly advances on your prone form.

“Stabbing myself in the chest was the best thing that I ever did!” Arguile taunts as he gets closer. “Now I finally get to kill you, no more holding back because someone wants you alive so that freak dragon can go on! I have to admit, I have no idea what I’ll do next with you gone, but I’m sure the Baron will find something to keep me busy! Maybe I’ll be his daughter’s new babysitter, what do you think of that!?”

Reaching you at last, Arguile brings a foot up, slamming it down onto your chest to hold you down. The stomp tears through the last shreds of your armor plating and crushes the servos beneath, turning your “stomach” into a wreckage of broken machinery. That too will be repaired, in time, but for now you’ve been nearly bisected by the blow. And it seems unlikely Arguile is going to give you a chance to recover, as he brings both wing cannons around to point down at your exposed control crystals.

“Goodbye, Incom. I can’t say anyone is going to miss you.”

Then the wing cannons fire, but instead of reducing your world to a bright and then darkening world of emptiness, they miss. Both bolts strikes the ground next to you, and you hear Arguile grunt in surprise and anger. As he pulls his foot out of you and turns around to face his assailant, he gives you a clear view – it’s Sara!

The brave child had been faking unconsciousness, and she had somehow managed to twist her bound hands around to in front of her. In addition to pulling off her gag, those suddenly more useful hands had found a sizable rock lying in the stream bed, which she was now using to wildly bludgeon Arguile with.

“Stop it! Leave him ALONE!” She cries, bringing the rock up and around directly into Arguile’s head. The blow dents the armor around his left eye socket, distorting the pale blue light coming from within, but the impact also tears the weapon out of Sara’s hands. Disarmed, she stumbles back a step, but then draws herself up and speaks in her firmest voice (that carries only a slight tremor of fear).

“I am Sara Gast, daughter of the Baron of Gast, your master, and I command –“

With a laugh, Arguile brings a hand back, and then backhands her across the face. There is a bright arc of blood as one of Arguile’s wrist blades, despite being retracted, finds flesh. Sara goes flying backward with another scream, landing heavily on her back yet again. It is hard to tell how badly she’s hurt, as she curls up into a ball, weakly crying as her hands fly up to her injured face, obscuring the damage. It is clear that she is out of the fight now, however, and yet Arguile still turns away from you to stomp towards her.

“You stupid little girl. Did you really think we gagged you out of concern you could order us around? Sorry, but your daddy took away your privileges after you left. Your “orders” don’t mean squat, nor does your wellbeing beyond being brought back alive. Your father might even thank me for disciplining you! In fact, I think I’m going to give you a spanking right now, you little brat! C’mere!”

With Arguile now focusing his aggression on the badly wounded Sara, your body was given a brief respite to repair itself. It wasn’t going to be much, but you might be able to focus the efforts. And if you were very, very, lucky, it would be enough to make one last desperate surprise attack on Arguile. But you’d better hurry, and you’d better not mess up, or Sara will have worse than an injured face, and you will be dead.

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

Under the effects of your dulling magic and his own exhaustion, Carlain gradually drifted off to sleep thanks to your lullaby. He didn’t seem to have a fever, and thanks to your magic his broken bones had all been knit back together. He would make a full recovery, likely even be back up to full strength in a few days, although the mental injuries would remain. And given what you had learned of his reasons for becoming a warlock, those injuries might never heal. They seldom did, you had to admit, looking at the reflection of your younger self in the mirror.

But you could not focus on Carlain any longer. You had important questions of your own, and a burning need to see those questions answered. Deep down, you knew you should wait, that you were exhausted and in need of rest. But you wouldn’t have peace until you got those answers. So until the confrontation to come over and done with, you couldn’t rest.

So you put your jacket and shoes, and slipped out of your room. After wandering a bit aimlessly into the woods to ensure you were not followed, by Theresea or anyone, you marked a tree with a rune to ensure silence. And then you conducted the ritual to put yourself in contact with your father.

A few minutes later, a projection appears before you – your father in his study, dressed in sleeping clothes and a robe but somehow looking as stern as ever. He doesn’t bother to question why you contacted him in the dead of night, but neither does he express concern as to *why* you would contact him in the middle of the night (as usual). Instead, he just gets right to business.

“Hello Isera. Have you contacted Cynthia yet? Was she able to offer any useful information?”

The Capital

Lonna

The Duke ***** his head for a moment, deep in thought, but then he smiles.

“Ah yes, *that* Korram Alstan. Well, I’m sure the usual efforts to ensure the safety of the attending nobility will be made, and don’t doubt the Baron will make adjustments to said arrangements in light of his numerous enemies. That said, I’ve heard *the* Korram Alstan has a talent for disruption. If the wedding is interrupted, it should have no impact on our arrangement – provided you don’t take advantage of the opportunity to try and escape. Or kill me, but I won’t insult your intelligence by assuming that is even a possibility. Now if that is all, please excuse me. I look forward to our evening together.”

And with that, Duke Volesin is gone. Ever the attentive servant, Albert is right there as soon as he is gone, beckoning to you. He leads you on through the clean and surprisingly plain interior of the manor, eventually stopping in front of a door on the third floor. He pauses to fish a key out of his pocket, unlocks the door and then pushes it open, stepping back to allow you entry. As you move to step through however, he stops you with a hand clamped around your wrist. For the man’s advanced age, his grip is surprisingly strong – painful, even.

“With Master Hohenheim frequently away on business, it fell to me to raise Master Edward and Master Alphonse. They were like sons to me. But I am a dutiful servant, and will obey Master Hohenheim’s orders to treat you with respect. But I swear to you now, that if you harm one hair on his head, I will personally instruct you on levels of pain beyond anything you could have experienced in Ironheart. And it won’t ever stop.”

The humble old butler, now considerably creepier than before, glares into your eyes a moment longer before he releases his grip and motions you inside the room. He closes the door behind you, and there is the faint rasp of a key in the lock as he locks you in.

***************

The days pass unbearably slowly in this tiny bedroom. At first you simply sleep, nervously at first for fear of waking up somewhere else in less pleasant circumstances, although with growing confidence as it became clear that Volesin was a man of his word. Eventually, sleep loses its charm for your drained body, and you spend the rest of the time simply waiting anxiously. Other than the butler, you saw no one during this time, and you only saw the butler when he came in to bring in or take out your meals. He was pleasant enough to you during those brief moments, with no hint of his brief threatening outburst, but neither was he interested in conversation.

Finally the appointed day arrives, and this time when the butler comes in he is bearing a dress of some sort. He hangs the dress off a hook on the wall, and turns to you, his body blocking your line of sight to it.

“Master Hohenheim would like you to get ready now. If you require makeup or anything else, it can be provided to you. I will be right outside the door. When you are ready, I will escort you down to Master Hohenheim so that you may both depart for the wedding. I suggest you don’t dawdle and keep him waiting longer than necessary.”

And with that, Albert is gone, leaving you alone again with the dress. As Volesin promised, it seemed to be an elegant custom tailored dress, although you’re not sure how he got your exact measurements. The dress itself seemed to be made of fine red silk with gold trim, several diaphanous layers stacked on top of each other to create a flowing garment that straddled the line between scandalous and classy. Going over and examining the dress more closely, you noted a few additional details, a few of which were rather concerning.

The dress did have sleeves, although they were little more than drapes to hang over your arms between the cuffs and the main body – the portion that would have covered the inside of your arms has been cut away. In fact, although you would have to put the dress on to confirm it, you suspect that the sleeves are designed to frame the insides of your arms – putting the cell number burned into one of them on display for all to see. Each sleeve is also connected to the main body of the dress by a flowing curtain of fabric that hangs down from the cuff and gradually tapers back into the main body of the dress at about the waist. Emblazoned on each of these somewhat extraneous pieces of cloth is a length of golden chain, running its entire length. Indeed, looking more closely at the cuff of each sleeve reveals that the gold trim forms a solid thick band there, strongly resembling a shackle.

Now alarmed, you thoroughly search the dress, both physically and magically. The collar of the dress is metal instead of fabric, and the inside of the gold circlet has been etched with annoyingly familiar anti-magic runes. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be a way to avoid closing the mage collar to put the dress on, and it was sewn firmly enough into the garment that trying to remove it would likely tear a few important layers of fabric that you would rather remain intact. However . . . other than the concealed mage collar, there seemed to be nothing else dangerous about the dress. There were no magical signals woven into the dress to control you, no hidden wires or actual chains to trap you. Even the mage collar itself seemed to have a simple clasp to hold it shut rather than a lock, although leaving the collar open would be very noticeable, and only grow more so as you moved about.

It seemed other than the mage collar, presumably there to make sure you didn’t charm anyone at the wedding, the duke was merely having some fun at your expense. In fact . . . looking at the dress as a whole, it vaguely reminded you of a much more conservative harem girl dress, from stories you heard as a child. Stories you told Ariella, of distant desert palaces, and clever harem girls. Now your blood was running cold all over again. It could have just been coincidence, but what if Volesin somehow knew about those stories you used to tell Ariella? Could Ariella have told him about those stories, and if so what other information had he extracted from your innocent little sister’s memory? Was your paranoid mind simply overreacting, and did you really have a choice regarding the dress and the rest of your situation?

Dorizzit

At your argument, Katrina pauses for a moment, and then frowns.

“And what about the Countess? You were all gung-ho to rescue her from what I remember. If you die who’s going to get her out of there?”

“The Countess is irrelevant.” Argan interjects. “Her marriage to Cheran is unfortunate, but it’s what is providing this opportunity to us. We aren’t going to waste it by concerning ourselves with her fate. We get in, we kill the Baron, that’s it. Now, are you in . . . or are you out?” Argan concludes, his voice dropping in a clear threat. Katrina tosses her head angrily in response.

“Fine. Don’t think my hesitation has anything to do with wanting the Baron to pay for what he’s done. I just want to make sure everyone lives to see it.”

At your reassurances, Lunara shrugs and nods.

“That’s true. Fair enough then.” She turns to Eldred and speaks up. “Sign me up, magic man. Let’s get this over with!”

Eldred has brought all the supplies he requires with him, as it turns out, and within minutes the room has been transforming into a combination magic laboratory/tattoo shop. As you know from your own experience, Eldred works swiftly and confidently, focused entirely on his work as he weaves elemental spirits into the dyes which he tattoos into designs and arcane script on the skin.

In a style reminiscent of your own elemental binding, Katrina selects a serpent, curling around and around her left arm, ending in dripping fangs just above the back of her wrist. Arcane script runs down the length of the snake’s spine, a design that is as artistic as it is functional. Lunara has a massive chimera stitched into existence across her back. And finally Eldred comes to you.

“Alright Korram, you’ve been through this before. I seem to remember you preferred functional script to an elegant design to help conceal it. Where do you want the tattoo, and do you want some sort of design or just script again? Designs of natural predators seem to somehow make the spirit more comfortable, but whatever you want will likely work.”

As you sit there thinking, you suddenly remember something. Something important, but that you had forgotten in all the confusion of your escape, and the desperation in the days that followed. A tattoo of a tiger, inked onto a severed scrap of skin, that you were to take out of Ironheart and destroy, so that the tiger within it could live free. The whispered promise to a dying man that you would do so or die trying. Another innocent victim of the Baron’s cruelty.

(You can have the tattoo be wherever you’d like, and whatever design you’d like. As suggested above, a copy of Dima’s pet tiger tattoo might be cool, but whatever you’d like. If you’d prefer to just handwave it, we can just assume its arcane script on Korram’s remaining arm.)

Once the tattoos were complete, Argan nods and slips a note to Eldred.

“Alright, thank you for your assistance Eldred. Go where this note tells you, and you should find enough to cover your fees, and then some.”

After the mage has left, the former assassin looks around the table and sighs.

“I think we’ve done about all the planning we can. Martin and I will continue to scout the cathedral grounds to make sure everything seems to be going as anticipated. The Baron’s probably going to have some surprises waiting for us, but we’ll just have to try and deal with them as best we can in the moment. We’ll meet back here the night of the wedding. See you all then.”

From there, the group quickly scatters. Argan manages to find you and Katrina each rooms in another inn in the slums where you’ll be out of sight until the time of the wedding. Unfortunately, out of sight does not mean out of trouble. Your head has scarcely touched the pillow of your bed before you feel something . . . strange. The room grows slightly warmer, and a dim light suffuses the room without there being a locatable origin.

Korram . . . Korram Alstan. A low voice hisses from everywhere and nowhere at once. You don’t recognize the voice, although you don’t think it’s some sort of trick from the Baron or his lackeys. It feels like something else entirely.

I . . . am Purifier . . . the Cleansing Flame. I wish . . . to help you . . . against your enemies. The voice continues.

Alone . . . you will fall . . . but together with me . . . we can crush . . . all who stand against us. What . . . do you think . . . of that?

WhiteKnight777

“Ta be true, Umbra. But ta was long ago.” The shadows shift again as a figure steps forward into the dim light. It is unmistakably Shiakti, and yet not.

Instead of her usual array of furs and bone, Shiakti was clad in a plain grey cloak and dark leather armor, which was almost organized enough to be a uniform. Across her empty eyes is a midnight black cloth, blending almost flawlessly with her skin, instead of the bright colors she once wore there to call attention to her sacrifice. She is still as lithe and imposing as before, but while the grace to her movements remains, there is a different energy to them now. No longer the calm and patient hunter, Shiakti seems perpetually agitated, some portion of her body always in motion. The image brings to mind the wild cats some foolish nobles attempt to keep as pets – those beasts were always angry, and constantly waiting for permission to leap forward and kill.

“No . . . ta was na me. I was still following ya scent – heady arrogance – ah few minutes ago. I just got here.” Shiakti said, a look of surprise momentarily registering on her face. She grins, revealing the full extent of the massive canines that jut out through her lips.

“But tis funny ya should mention Destiny. Tell me, Umbra – have ya been too busy wit ya wandering, or can ya feel it? Ta whole world, holding her breath ta see what comes next.”

Shiakti’s senses were always the sharpest among your elite cadre – that was only natural with her status as the huntress. But there was more to it than that, as even before her ascension Shiakti’s senses bordered on prescient. In the days leading up to the Ritual, she had been harping on a similar theme, that the world itself was holding its breath in anticipation.

“Ta Baron ah Gast an Miriam ta Valkyrie, they be fighting soon enough. Ta fight will decide ta fate ah ta world.”

Shiakti nods at you, her hands still hidden inside the folds of her cloak.

“I been sent ta speak wit ya, and see if ya be willing to help out. If he wins, ta Baron is sure to be generous. If he doesn’t, well, don’t expect ta Valkyrie to show ya any mercy, whether ya fight by our side or not. Ya can work out ta exact details wit ta Baron – I will escort ya there now, if ya want.”

“And what of me? I seem to recall the Baron expended some effort to find and eliminate me for my association with the Hierarch.” Fianna speaks up, earning another toothy grin from Shiakti.

“Believe me, if he be wanting ya found, ya have been found. So long as ya were not interfering wit hes plans, he don’t care wat ta do. And if Umbra helps out, I’m sure he be willing to forget past conflicts. Ta Baron is na fool – he helps those who help him.”

At this last line, Shiakti’s features soften a bit, and you see clearly now. The great huntress herself had been reduced to a falcon, somehow, by this man, this Baron of Gast. And at his orders, she has flown forth to either retrieve you, or kill you. That made refusing Shiakti’s offer of coming in to speak with the Baron suicidal. But going in with her and then not agreeing to the Baron’s exact terms, whatever they were, would be even worse as then you’d have him to deal with on top of Shiakti. You would have to plan your words very carefully if you wished to avoid a fight.

Gorgondantess

Finished with your interaction with the Baron, you are escorted out of his airship and left to your own devices. You are painfully aware that you’ve come out of this exchange worse than when you entered it, but hopefully it will bear some fruit later on. At the very least, you gained further insight into your enemy, the gods, and how they interact with the humans (and how some humans resent it).

Once safely away from the Gastly Truth, you turn to Maurice to attempt a smile and ask her if there was anything she wanted. Curiously, she seems to be fighting back tears.

“Wha – um, no.” She says, starting at the sound of your voice.

“I require nothing from this city.” She says, looking up at you while brushing the last of the tears away. She pauses a moment, and then looks away again.

“My kind. We have the ability to look into the souls of men . . . and see the sins written there. It is a talent we all have naturally, but must learn to control, lest we be bombarded by a constant litany of sins whenever we’re among humans. You can imagine how lifetimes lived amongst humans has refined my control. I dared not look upon the Baron through those eyes of truth, but . . . I could still *feel* them. All the atrocities he’s committed – his soul is stained black as night with them! He’s not going to stop now - he won’t stop until he’s dead.”

Maurice turns back to look at you, a mixture of pleading and accusing in her still-moist eyes.

“If you care about anything in this world . . . anything at all . . . you will fulfill your threat against him sooner rather than later. Of course, I suppose I have forgotten that your revenge – or should we call it pre-emptive defense? – against the gods is the most important thing to you. In that event just sit back and watch the world burn – the Baron will give you all the bloodshed you could want and more!”

Maurice shakes her head and sighs.

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be a very good conversationalist right now. Meeting the Baron has shaken me, and I don’t know yet whether I should feel anger – or fear.”

Maurice holds her hands up to you with a resigned expression.

“Assuming we are heading back as you claim, my oath not to escape as expired. So, I suppose this is the part where you drag me back in chains and stick me back in my gilded cage. Unless, of course, you choose to trust that I will not run off the moment you turn your back?”

Regardless of your decision whether to risk trusting Maurice not to run off, or enforcing her obedience with chains and threats, you set off back home, carrying the angel in your arms. You return several days later to find that the town is much changed, although surprisingly more towards order than chaos. Trenches have been dug outside the town, and the beginnings of a wooden palisade have been erected. A number of cultists are lined up in rows out in the field, practicing with weapons. And hanging from the tops of several buildings are flags – new flags to replace those that once denoted loyalty to the human kingdom and the false gods’ church. They’re all rather crude, making it hard to identify what exactly they’re supposed to represent, but the flags all appear to be depicting a golden fish.

Having been alerted by several lookouts, your high priest is out in front of the church to greet you as you land. It would seem that the church has been converted into the center of your new organization, although that is hardly surprising. You’re starting to learn that although humans claim to want change, they’re much happier when the status quo remains the same. With your high priest is the man you put in charge of this specific town. They both give a low bow, the young man physically throwing himself face first into the dirt at your feet. He remains there, long after your high priest has pulled himself back up to his full height.

“As you can see, progress towards defending this bastion of our faith in you is proceeding rapidly.” The high priest says, shooting a glance down at the young man, still kneeling and bent over before you. Your high priest clears his throat nervously, frowning.

“We’ve convinced some of the people from nearby towns to join us, although a few towns are proving reluctant to accept the truth. Regardless, perhaps the most important news I have to give you is that we have a visitor. He is waiting for you inside, and has claimed he will only speak with you. He was armed only with these.”

The high priest pulls out a cloth-wrapped buddle from beneath his robes, and carefully unfolds it out over his arm. Within the cloth is a bandolier of stone knives, you recognize them immediately. Apparently one of your assailants – well, not one of *them*, but a member of their organization – is here, and wants to speak with you.

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

He thinks for a long, painful moment, but then takes a step to the side.

"I don't believe you, but Ander will certainly want to hear this accusation in full, as will I. And while there is no better death than in the service of a righteous cause, I think there's more good I can do alive than dead. I owe Katashiko that much."

[Gorgondantess]

She narrows her eyes at Maurice's pleading/accusing, not sure of how to reply. Instead, she decides that the best response would be simple stoicism. Let her get over it.
Beyond that, she's not planning on killing the Baron any time soon. Oh, sure, it would be a pleasure to kill him- the list of petty grievances she has against him is quite large. Possessing a steel of the same sort as those stone daggers. Getting the better of her. Wasting angels. Being a presumptuous human. The man attempted to take the power out of the hands of the gods, and give it to humans- and the more time went on, the more she despised humanity and grew to accept the gods. No, he'd die... but later rather than sooner. She would just have to wait until the exact opportune moment, when he's at his most vulnerable. Then, and only then, would he die.
Or someone else would do it for her. The man likely has a long list of enemies, after all. Let them risk their necks.

Maurice holds her hands up to you with a resigned expression.

“Assuming we are heading back as you claim, my oath not to escape as expired. So, I suppose this is the part where you drag me back in chains and stick me back in my gilded cage. Unless, of course, you choose to trust that I will not run off the moment you turn your back?”

She seems a little taken aback by this. "I did say that agreeable behavior would be rewarded with liberties, did I not? I have no reason to lie about such things. No, I believe you've earned that much. Come- let's be off. Those humans have likely burned the place down by now."

On the flight back, she waits a few days before broaching the questions she'd been curious of since Maurice's first comments.
"You say that your kind have the ability to look upon the souls of men... but do you see anything when you look upon me?"
And, later- "The Baron will die, I have no doubt of that. If not by my hands, then by another- and I assure you, I would have no qualms doing the deed myself.
But now is not the time. If I had gone to meet him knowing what I know now, maybe, but he knows my weakness- my only weakness. Patience and sequence, sequence and order. Stick with me, and you'll see his head on a stake, I can guarantee it.
I have no intention of seeing this world burn. I like this world. When it comes down to it, I'll stand between it and whosoever seeks its destruction. But that man is a schemer, not an actor- whatever may happen, will not happen for quite some time."

She comments on the town to Maurice as they land.
"Surprising, really, that the town's still in order... but why the banners? It always struck me as odd, why these humans create insignia that don't seem to denote anything in particular, but fictional and strange facsimiles of reality- or worse yet, crude representations of that which does exist in reality."

She sneers at the man's groveling, both of them. Any faith she found in the group was shattered there. "Get up. You're acting like fools. I don't desire any sniveling or worship- just respect and obedience as I deserve."

“We’ve convinced some of the people from nearby towns to join us, although a few towns are proving reluctant to accept the truth."

"Yes, yes, that's fine. I don't particularly expect them to readily give themselves over to a deity they've not seen."

The high priest pulls out a cloth-wrapped buddle from beneath his robes, and carefully unfolds it out over his arm. Within the cloth is a bandolier of stone knives, you recognize them immediately. Apparently one of your assailants – well, not one of *them*, but a member of their organization – is here, and wants to speak with you.

Immediately upon seeing this her eyes widen. She pushes the man aside, grunting something about putting the daggers someplace safe, and half-strides, half-sprints into the church the meet the visitor. As she goes, she summons her armor- the armor she'd taken from Maurice. It crawls out over her body, seemingly from nowhere, first spreading a mesh and then interlocking plates. It's designed not so much for defense of the vitals, as human armor, but consistent, 100% protection, covering every inch of her body but the stony, shield-like left arm. She draws her (Maurice's) sword and bursts inside the building to meet the possessor of the stone knives, ready to kill or be killed.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

Waiting should, in all honesty, be easier without a body. After all, there were no biological needs to distract him. This did little to change the fact that Sohssal just wasn't very patient. He relaxed at least a little when Arlan finally responded, and nodded briefly as the Baron appeared.

While the thought filled him with disgust, Sohssal knew he had to get on the Baron's good side. He suppressed his reaction to the baron's apparent smugness (much easier for him than being patient). ”I haven't survived for over a century by not being paranoid. Nonetheless, I have contacted you because a certain Xerxes told me of a potentially profitable partnership. I was told you were the man to contact,” he explained.

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

Looking over at the bloody form of Sara, Incom pushes aside the reports of damage from his battered body as her screams echo through his mind. Iron will forms and he acts upon his situation.

His wings, barely reformed with the cannons non-functional have one working part restored by now, thrusters. Yet they were weak and drained of energy, not enough to do much good. His legs were crushed, the damage to his torso preventing them from being readily repaired, again not enough to allow him to stand up and fight.

Looking at the back of Arguile Incom spies the damage to his skull. An idea forms, one born of desperation, insanity and the last parts of his humanity vomit in disgust.

”LADIES! Front and Center Now!”

Not even waiting Incom slams his will into the two of them, causing them to pause in their combat in shock with his intentions. Not waiting for them to respond he starts acting.

Reaching with his right arm, partially form he swings awkwardly as his body screams and metals tears. His mind flashes instinctively back to his human form and he screams out loud as he re-reoutes what power he can to his wing thrusters.

”ARGUILE!”

Firing the wing thrusters Incom rockets away as his body rips in half from the stomach down. Freed from the dead-weight he rockets, barely in control towards Arguile and slams into him. The two of them fall to the ground, rolling away from Sara while Incom scrambles with his arms and swings a final blow….

* * *

Arguile reaches out from the blow, grabbing Incom and throwing him away as his bloody entrils slid across the ground, Incom’s blood mixing with the soil. Smirking he raises his crossbow and fires, the bolt flying true and taking Incom in the head, snapping it back violently as the crossbow bolt rips through his brain.

“Finally Incom! Rot in oblivion.”

Yet there was something strange. Where did the crossbow come from? Why was Incom flesh and blood, let alone himself? Let alone that, where was that stupid girl who didn’t know to follow her father?

Looking down he sees a dagger sticking from his chest, the same one that he had stabbed into himself at the end of his human life. A strange sound starts to come from the corpse of Incom as the body twitches. A few seconds pass before he realizes that it is chuckles as the crossbow wavers and vanishes as the reality of the situation comes to his mind.

”Took you long enough to realize what happened.”

Incom pushes himself up from the ground, his forehead a ragged mess where most of his skull was missing, let along the fact he was torn in half. Looking down at himself he shakes his head.

”I wonder what your master thinks what happens to our souls as we act within his creations? Interesting is it not? What, you have not walked down the twisted corridors of your life before?”

Standing up in the air his body wavers and shimmers until he is standing on two legs, covered in fresh scar tissue. The rest of his body is similarly scarred, pitted with missing flesh and bones sticking out in places. Even more violent rips and patches of badly healed flesh show where limbs had been torn asunder. Eyes whitened with what most would assume to be blindness from when they had been torn out. Pale scar tissue where fingernails should be and only a few tattered tuffs of hair remaining with splotches of a crazy mans beard. The nightmares visage narrows eye-lid-less eyes at Arguile before waving a hand in a taunting manner.

”Let’s do this, man-to-man, or do you not have the guts?

* * *

In what some may consider the real world, the two forms of Incom and Arguile, one of the bodies torn in half rest on the ground, shaking together with Incom’s fist melded into the damaged section of Arguile’s head.a

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Katrina's comment about the Countess stings Korram; she's right, as always, but he sees no other alternatives. Despite his own confused feelings on the matter, he still defends himself, trying to convince himself as much as Katrina.

"If I go in, I'm dying pretty much no matter what. The Countess may get an opportunity to escape. That's all I can hope for."

Korram waits patiently for his turn with Eldred and his needles. When the time comes, he takes a seat in front of the mage as the process is described to him. He is about to request a simple, functional tattoo, when Eldred's words trigger a rush of memory. Dima. A prisoner met early on in the escape from Ironheart. Killed a few minutes later. A scrap of flesh. A tiger. Korram had promised to destroy the tiger tattoo. Had he? Everything had been so chaotic. He can't remember. A half-memory of burning it soon after his release comes to Korram, but is it real, or a fabrication based on desire? Shaking his head to clear it, Korram decides it is irrelevant. He no longer has the scrap of flesh, one way or another. But the memory brings its own inspiration, too.

"Make it a tiger."

Korram has the tiger tattooed across his lower back, holding himself still as Eldred binds another spirit to his body. When all has finished, he bids goodbye to the other conspirators before being taken to another inn by Argan. Exhausted, he heads straight for the room's simple bed and flops down. Before sleep can claim him, however, the strange voice hisses from everywhere at once. Alarmed, Korram springs out of bed and to his feet, looking all around suspiciously. He lowers his guard slightly at the voice's declaration of its intent to help him, but is far from relaxed.

"I think...I'm interested. I want to know more."

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent
[Outside the Capital]

"Cynthia was a traitor and is now a pile of ashes. The Canticles have been compromised by this cabal." Isera started bluntly.
"When we contacted her, she attacked me and was preparing to have me sacrificed, but thanks to a good companion and a little bit of luck, we were able to defeat her. The townspeople became involved unfortunately, but they performed well also." She continued. "Carlain was injured during the fighting, but he's recovering."

She didn't mention that Carlain had also been a traitor. That kind of information, should she give it, would only be done in person. And she was much more concerned about other things.

"And you have a lot to explain, now." She said. "I've got files that prove you asked the Canticles for permission to summon a demon. Back when mother died. That's because the Canticles has more traitors inside of it. But put that aside for a second. Let's talk about you."

Isera pointed at him accusingly.

"You never told me, and you never were going to tell me, were you? That you make mistakes and have weak moments like everyone else. But you never let it show, and you always pretend everyone has to be perfect." She said. "You never let me redeem from my mistakes, and I was just a kid, but you do something like that?"


(ooc: I can't write good argue of Isera. I don't have good inspiration. )

[The_Snark]

Mar

The Tower. Mar flinched as the soothsayer snared her arm with fingers like iron, exposing her secret for everyone to see. Julian knew already, of course, and she wasn't really afraid of letting William know. Except she didn't want him to know, because now he would be curious, and even if he never bothered her with questions, she'd be able to see them in his eyes. She'd always know that he knew, and that would be another little reminder of her old life.

The Spy. Mar flinched a second time. It wasn't like that, really… was it? She just didn't want to answer questions, that was all. She didn't have a hidden agenda, and she didn't mean anything by it—not really. Yet the cowled Spy made her feel as if she concealed something ghastly, something shameful. She couldn't make herself meet the seer's eyes, nor did she dare look behind her. She wished William and Jacob didn't have to be here for this.

The Pyre.

Mar didn't flinch; she fled.

Out the tent she fled, out into the snow, into the trees that had welcomed her when she fled Ironheart. This was the place that lay between, cold and empty and safe. There was nothing to be afraid of here; it was when you stopped running, when you left the empty places, that you had to start worrying, and so Mar ran. On and on she ran, heedless of the snow-covered roots that lurked in wait for unwary feet, until at last she found she couldn't run anymore.

And at the same time she found out that the forest wasn't such a lonely place after all. Mar was too worn out to feel very much at the sight of Firkas, who was after all a very small terror compared to the seer and her memories of Daddy and the nightmarish other memories that kept plaguing her. She didn't like him for what he'd done to Caroline, and she was a little afraid of him for her own sake, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care right now. It was disappointing more than anything else: why couldn't the world have let her be alone for a little while?

"I'm sorry," she said at last, sounding as tired as she felt. Her voice was a little choked, too; she swallowed to try and clear the bile from her throat before going on. "I didn't realize this was your place. You can show it to me, if you like. Or not. You don't have to."

She leaned back on her knees to gaze up at the treehouse. She didn't really want to go up there, and it was probably a bad idea, but she didn't have the energy to argue. Maybe if she just went along with it he'd let her leave without a fuss.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

The former Lord of Blood was quiet for a long moment. If he had to fight Shiakti, he was unsure if he could defeat her - Fianna was newly reborn, and no doubt weak. She would probably prove a liability in a fight, while the Huntress was still in fighting trim, unless the Baron's binding had somehow weakened her. That would make sense, really - any sort of effect that mitigated free will tended to make an individual less competent in other areas, as well. But there was no guaruntee of that.

Besides, there was merit to listening to what the Baron had to say. Unlike most of Ironheart's former prisoners, Umber had few to no moral objections to the Baron's actions. The man was a tyrant, but so had Umber been, once - and he had quit because he found it boring and deeply unsatisfying, not because of some grand realization of his own wrongs. Furthermore, he agreed, at least, that the gods and their servants were offensively self-righteous.

His conflict with the Baron was of a more personal nature. Umber did not forgive or forget what he had been through in the Baron's prison - but then again, Kartul was more directly to blame than the Baron for what Umber had suffered.

Ultimately, though, Umber was a pragmatic individual. He'd seen what clinging to vengance beyond reason could do, and he wasn't about to fall into the trap so many of his fellow - no, former fellow immortals had fallen into. He was not about to obsess over some petty cause until the skies turned red - which seemed to be a likely event in the near future.

Finally, he spoke up. "I will agree to speak with the Baron. But the last time I was his guest, I spent a rather unfortunate length of time in a small jar. And my love suffered far, far worse. I want to speak with him somewhere neutral, where neither of us will have a terrain advantage."

Umber wished he had time to retrieve some of his old wargear - he had stowed it in a pocket-dimension outside normal reality before the Ritual, planning to retrieve it later. They were relics from the time before his transformation, and he could not use them without his sorcery. With his abilities restored, they would have proved very useful in augmenting his combat ability. Unfortunately, the gateway was several thousand miles away, and he wouldn't have time until after his confrontation with the Baron - if then. He would just have to make do with what he had, as always.

[OverWilliam]

Spoiler

Show

“Yeah. Well you know how those guards are. Sometimes they’re real louts, and sometimes they’re surprisingly competent.” Brock says, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. He sets his chair back up and sits down across from you, clearly uncomfortable – despite the obvious lack of protection it provided, he wanted a table between you instead of empty space. For a few moments Brock is silent, but then he slowly nods.

“Alright Tare, sure. Whatever you want – it’s good to have you back! I’ll have some of the boys track down whatever you need for your friend. I assume this friend is back at Ulrich’s little chapel – that’s why you’ve been hanging out there so much?”

At this point, another man enters the tavern, making an immediate beeline for Brock. He starts whispering into his ear – which, with your new abilities, made it as easy to listen in as if he was shouting.

“Sir, that merchandise you wanted is now in town. It’s already being taken care of. But I know you wanted to be alerted immediately.”

Brock nods eagerly, and then stands up.

“Well, it seems I have more business to attend to, Tare! The life of a guild leader is never a quiet one, that is for sure. In any event, we’ll talk more later on future business – I have a couple deals coming up that you might be interested in. I’ll be in touch – that is, unless you have anything more you need to discuss right now?”

Brock freezes as he delivers that last sentence – he clearly had been spooked by your display, and was clearly concerned you had more demands to lay out. If none are forthcoming, Brock hurriedly makes for the door, collecting his cadre of bodyguards as he goes. At the door, he pauses and turns back.

“Oh and by the way Tare, you may want to go see Karami. She misses you.”

And with that, he is gone. (Assuming, again, that Tare does not have any more questions/demands to make).

“So what now? Do you think he will honor his word to dispatch aid?” Melcara asks, sitting down beside you once again.

~Tare

Tare almost flared up to finish what he'd nearly started at the mention of Karami's name. It is difficult to keep the baser half of one's mind from having its way when the other half agrees completely, but somehow common sense won out and Tare retained his seat until the room had emptied. Slowly the urge to irreparably shatter something faded, and Tare visibly relaxed-- or something caused his shoulders to sag, be it relaxation or something else.

Melcara's presence was oddly soothing. Allowing her simple, sensible question to be the starting point around which the rest of his thoughts could arrange themselves, Tare nodded for a moment, then replied. "He won't go back on his word. I'm not the first or the most dangerous high-risk ally he's ever dealt with, and he knows the rules of engagement. It's hard to call someone's bluff when they just demonstrated themselves capable of splitting your skull in half with their bare hands, but that advantage only works once." Tare sighed. "He'll send someone to find Ulrich, and get him what he needs. He knows exactly the opportunity I just provided him with, and he'll be smart about it-- he won't move until he has a way of controlling it. He'll do what he needs to in order to gain leverage on me, give him something to barter with when it comes time for me to repay the show of good faith. He knows what kind of man I am-- saving a life important to me is big currency, and he'll keep that in his back pocket until the exact moment he needs it--and I hate it--the most." He smiled a mirthless grin. "And also, I nearly killed him just now. You don't just get away with that, I'll pay for it later. In little pieces, probably, but one doesn't allow displays like that to go unrepaid-- it's bad for business. People start to disrespect you, and then it's just work, work, work, all the time."

Tare leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang forward toward the floor. At that moment he looked every bit as worn as he felt. "I was almost glad to have left this game behind. Ironheart was horrific, but when I dreamed of escaping, or surviving, or coming up with something... it wasn't so that I could come back here."

He was quiet for a while, no doubt considering how eagerly he'd entered the lower rungs of the ladder that now seemed very high, very steep, and very slippery.

"...Ok, enough of all that. Let's get out of here." He stood, offering Melcara a hand. "Come on-- I want you to meet someone."

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7 – Special Autopilot DM

The following post contains significant information regarding the Church’s motivations. It will be difficult to find this information elsewhere, but, obviously it’s rather spoilerish if you want to remain as in the dark OOC as IC. You have been warned.

Spoiler

Show

Despite his head start, Greyson’s lead on Ander vanished as the Exarch’s age betrayed him. He turned to defend himself, but with a swift twist of the wrist and a slamming of the head into the wall later, Greyson was on the ground at the lord general’s mercy.

“Wait! Wait! I s-surrender!” Greyson cried, throwing his hands up in desperation as Ander raised his sword.

“D-don’t you need to take my prisoner? To try me for my crimes?” The Exarch pleaded, willing to grasp any objection to delay his fall into the Hells. Ander paused a moment, but then his face hardened.

“I have been sent by the Valkyrie Herself to cleanse Her Church of the evil that has been festering at its heart for too long! I’ve already seen more than enough evidence of your sins, Greyson! And I’ve already decided what your punishment shall be!”

Ander pulled his sword back further to deliver the final blow, causing Greyson to shriek with even greater desperation.

“Wait! Wait, damn you! You know about Project Angelus, about our attempts to bend the Valkyrie’s servants to our will. But you might not know the full extent of my little project. There are hundreds – thousands – of angels down here, in various stages of the process!”

For just a moment, Ander froze in horror. He had seen the evidence firsthand in the Heavens, even suspected the magnitude of the Church’s blasphemy, but to have it confirmed was disturbing. Taking advantage of the brief pause in his execution, Greyson hurried onward.

“Listen, those brands aren’t going to be easy to remove - we made them to overcome angelic regeneration after all. But . . . but, if you spare me, I will help you figure out how to undo them. Surely that atonement for my crimes would be enough? Then, afterwards, you could lock me up! I’m an old man, I don’t have much time left anyway, and –“

“Shut. Up.” Ander growled, but he still hesitated to deliver the killing blow. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Greyson was right. The angels the Church had kidnapped and experimented on were undoubtedly mutilated. And given Her display with the poor angel’s soul trapped in the crystal, Miriam was unlikely to be sympathetic to their plight. They would all be considered tainted, and She might very well destroy all of them. That seemed like a tragedy, made worse by the idea that it could be averted. But if averting that meant letting one of the corrupt Exarches, and possibly one of the worst, survive . . . well, that was a difficult decision. Fortunately Ander was used to difficult decisions, and he’d had more than his share of them since embarking on this quest so long ago. He already knew the answer he would choose even before he thought about it.

“No deal. I’ll figure out how to save them my own way!” Ander said, letting the sword fall at last.

“Wai – ARGH!” Greyson cried, breaking off into an awkward gurgle as Justice found his throat. The fallen Exarch managed a few last weak bubbling coughs as his blood sprayed onto the nearby wall and floor in front of him. But not even his clenched hands around the wound could stem the flow of blood, and he soon crumpled to the floor with a final, rattling sigh.

Ander began to wipe the blood off the blade when the peculiar sound of clapping caught his ear. Whirling, sword held at the ready, Ander found that a gorgeous woman stood clapping at the nearby doorway, a satisfied smirk on her face. She was dressed in the ornate robes of the Speaker, and so despite having never seen her before Ander knew this must be Speaker Morganna. The heart of the Church’s corruption. Stepping fully into the hallway and closing the door behind her, Morganna favored Ander with a smile and raised her hands.

“I am unarmed, and have come here only to fulfill the function of my office – to speak.”

“You don’t speak for the Valkyrie, so I can’t imagine we have anything to talk about!” Ander growled, but for now simply held his ground – it was difficult wrapping his mind around the idea that the leader of his enemies had come all this way and put herself at his mercy just to talk. This conflict had long since gone beyond the ability of words to solve. At his argument, Morganna simply smiled and stepped forward.

“That is where you are wrong, my dear child. I doubt that you have heard the full –“

From within its sheath, Sin Eater snarled loudly. Morganna stopped immediately at the sound, going incredibly still. But only for a moment, and then she chuckled – but approached no further.

“So She gave you an angel slaying blade, did She? Of course. She did, after all, send you to slay . . . me.”

For a moment, the dim hallway brightened as a golden glow surrounded Morganna. The Speaker of the Church stretched luxuriously, the tips of her white wings brushing against the walls, as she was revealed for what she truly was – an angel.

“Ah, that feels good. It is rare indeed that I have the opportunity to stretch my wings, particularly since claiming the mantle of Speaker. But we all have to make sacrifices.”

Switching his grip on Justice to a one-handed grip, Ander pulled Sin Eater from its sheath, the blade literally singing as it was drawn. The former lord general raised the tip of the deadly weapon to point at the angelic Morganna, causing her to retreat a step but no farther.

“What the Hells is going on!?”

A sad, soft smile crossed Morganna’s lips.

“So She sent you to kill me but didn’t explain why. I figured as much. Alright then. Let me tell you a story, my child. I think you will find it most enlightening, in a tragic sort of way.”

Morganna flared her wings, taking a deep breath, and then began her tale.

“Long, long ago, there was a terrible war between humanity and the Heavens. The reasons for the war and the war itself are unimportant, but suffice to say humanity lost – naturally. As punishment for its sins, Miriam abandoned humanity to the forces of the Hells. But She was not entirely without mercy. A small number of angels, led by the archangel Marisiel the Protector, would remain on the mortal plane to prevent the darkness from consuming humanity entirely. But only just.”

Morganna shook her head, her eyes haunted.

“Can you imagine it? Centuries of watching those you had sworn to protect being trampled on, tortured, ruled by those you had likewise sworn to destroy. But you can do nothing! Certainly you can save a few here, discretely guide a few to safety there, but the vast majority of your charges must be left in horrific agony. They must all suffer for the sins of their ancestors, because that is the will of the Valkyrie – the Vengeful Goddess!”

These last words nearly came out as a scream, and Morganna paused for a minute to regain her composure. Finally she shook her head and continued.

“All hope is not lost. We manage to create a few precious locations where humanity can live free – but not without fear. The vast majority of humanity remains firmly within the grip of the Hells, and that grip persists for so long, and with such brutality, that humanity forgets everything else. The existence of the Divine Couple . . . the ability to use magic . . . even the concept of civilization . . . all gone. All that remains are the fiends, each set up with its own little tribe of fearful, feral, human worshippers. It’s possible that things would have remained this way forever but for two dramatic events.”

Morganna lifted a finger.

“First, the Death of Marisiel. You know from your history lessons that Marisiel is known as the lost one, the one who fell in battle against the forces of the Hells, never to be seen again. This is largely true – Marisiel did go to investigate a disturbance at the largest of our “safe” zones for humanity, and she never returned. Upon investigating we discovered a smashed city and the remains of some profane ritual of immense power. It was assumed at the time that Marisiel was overcome by the fiends released by the ritual, and dragged down into the Hells for an eternity of unimaginable torment. We’ll get back to that matter in a bit.”

Morganna extended a second finger.

“Second, the rise of humanity. To this day, I still do not understand it, but somehow humanity rallied. Slowly at first but with increasing success, the humans threw off their shackles and tore down their fiendish oppressors. Without any aid from us, mind you. Somehow, your noble race was able to push itself up out of the muck, and keep pushing until the fiends were almost entirely routed and humanity was once again dominant on the mortal plane. It was awe-inspiring and frankly, a little humbling to watch. Unfortunately humanity’s ascent also presented us with a problem – no human born outside of our little sanctuaries knew anything about the Gods. To them, the demons and devils ruling over them were the gods, and they had just killed most of them.”

Morganna gave a bitter laugh.

“I’m sure you can see how this understandable belief in humanity’s absolute mastery of existence had to be quickly squashed. Humanity’s arrogance was what had led to its fall in the first place, and a second challenge to the Divine Couple’s authority could not be tolerated. Already we were seeing the signs as humanity reclaimed its ability to use magic – in particular, a group of six idiots who would come to call themselves “The Lords of Blood”.”

Morganna gestured with her extended fingers, first towards Ander, and then towards herself.

“And now we come to our part in the story - to the Church’s part in this sad history. After we contacted the Valkyrie with our growing concerns, She agreed with our assessment that humanity needed a lesson. But thankfully, mercy was to be shown, and humanity would be led forward rather than pushed back down into the muck. It was to me, and me alone, that the task to teach humanity fell. It proved to be the hardest task I have ever been given – oh Gods, was it hard! But I strove, and I fought, and I schemed, and ultimately I forged an organization that would lead humanity back into the light. That organization you know today as the Church of Light.”

Morganna sighed, looking down at the floor.

“Despite my divine mandate, for a while I thought it was certain that my fledgling Church would fall. I could not reveal my true nature, because in a way, the foundation of the Church itself was a test – whether or not humanity wanted to be saved. It turns out, thankfully, that humanity did want to be saved, but there were many challenges in those early days, and I made many mistakes. So many mistakes . . .”

Morgana trailed off, staring wistfully down into the floor. Eventually she stirred and continued, but her voice now was much quieter. Tired.

“My worst mistake by far was that once, I did reveal myself as I am doing with you now. I did it to inspire a single man, in the hopes that it would give him the courage to do the impossible assignment I was asking of him. It worked for a time, but I overestimated the strength of Man. Ultimately he betrayed me, forsaking his oaths and transforming from my spy into the seventh Lord of Blood. But it was not I who paid the price for his treachery, but instead my sister Marta. They . . . captured her, violated her, all as part of their insane attempt to claim immortality. I don’t think poor Marta ever quite recovered from that, and nothing could be done to heal her.”

Morganna’s fists clenched, and her face took on the familiar aspect of divine fury.

“But there was one thing I could do, and that was to avenge her. And even though we were not ready, the Church went to war with those godless sons of bitches! And do you know what? Somehow, we won. It proved to be even easier than I thought possible, perhaps because the Lords’ own empire crumbled in on itself. I suppose by the end, even their own followers realized what monsters the Lords of Blood had become. And with them gone, the Church’s authority was virtually undisputed. Oh, most of the world still lived in ignorance of the Gods, but its influence was now fragmented. Piece by piece, we absorbed the scattered tribes of humanity, until finally the entire world once again lived under the banner of the Divine Couple.”

Morganna gave a wistful smile.

“But that’s not the end of the story, is it? Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here with you pointing that abominable blade at me. And so at last we come to the saddest part of my tale. I just told you that the Church was created to re-educate humanity on the existence of the gods, but that’s not the sole reason. After the defeat of the Lords of Blood, and all humanity was once again reunited, I took steps to set in motion the second part of my mission – the Crusade against the Hells. The singular defining purpose that the Church has worked toward since its creation, at least up until I canceled it during your recent incarceration in Ironheart.”

Morgana shook her head sadly and stared down again at the floor.

“The official goal of the Crusade was to conquer the Hells and dethrone Azguloth. But as we both know, Azguloth was safely imprisoned beneath Ironheart. And of course, angels are powerless within His domain, so the invasion had to be fought entirely by humanity. It was an impossible and pointless demand to make – even without Azguloth, the Hells can never be conquered. The fiends cannot die, not permanently, and their ranks constantly swell both from the natural deaths of evil people and the damning deaths of our own soldiers. Even imprisoning them all is impossible – this facility houses dozens of the Hells’ leaders, and it requires all we can do to keep them here. So, realistically, I was commanded to force humanity into a war that it could never win.”

Morganna dragged her eyes up to look at Ander, and her fists clenched again as her eyes started to smolder.

“But do you want to know the worst part, the true selfish reason I was asked to start a war that would consume countless thousands of the Valkyrie’s most devoted followers over the many centuries to come? The real reason for the Crusade was never to conquer the Hells – it was to locate Marisiel the Protector and rescue her! All those poor noble souls, damned forever, just as part of a rescue attempt for a single soul valued beyond measure by the Valkyrie. In Her mind, it was humanity that was responsible for Marisiel being dragged down into the Hells, and so it was humanity who would pay the bloody price for her release. But I’m sure the thought has occurred to you . . . if the actual goal of the Crusade was to recover Marisiel, why was she never found? It is true that you never broke down into the Ninth level, and it’s certainly possible that a prisoner as important as Marisiel would be dragged into the depths of Azguloth’s own fortress. Really though, that’s just wishful thinking, the same kind I had after every report on the Crusade – maybe Marisiel was being held in the next fortress, down on the next level!”

Morganna’s anger was dispelled by a dry, hopeless laugh.

“So I spent the centuries as the casualties continued to mount, hoping against hope that Marisiel would finally be found and this horrific sacrifice could be ended. I rarely took a leadership position after the Crusade began, preferring to remain behind the scenes and provide guidance only when necessary. But the Crusade took on a life of its own, and as the one responsible for starting it I despaired at the loss of every brave soul. Sometimes, when it became too much to bear, I would abandon whatever humble duties my current human persona fulfilled, and wandered the countryside as myself. Those times, when I could just be what I was created to be – a divine guide and protector – where the only times I felt truly happy.”

Morganna favored Ander with a genuine smile, leaving him wondering if she was smiling at him or at the memories. He didn’t have long to wait for an answer.

“A number of years ago, I came upon a small farmhouse under attack from a pack of demons, called forth by a warlock. I arrived too late to stop the slaughter, the cruel sport the demons played upon the innocent family as a prelude to the real horrors waiting down in the Hells. But I did arrive in time to slaughter the demons in turn, and prevent any innocent souls from being damned. I was about to go hunting for the warlock when a young man returned to the burned ruins, the sole survivor of his family. He was understandably traumatized to return home to find his home in shambles and his family butchered, and my heart went out to him. I chose not to strain his sanity further by appearing, and so hid myself and watched him. I was worried that after such a crippling event, the man would remain a broken shell for the rest of his days, assuming he didn’t cut it short by his own hands. So . . . I decided to try and inspire him, to give him something to live for.”

“No. This is a lie.” Ander breathed, his blood running cold as he recognized the story. But he was unable to tear his gaze away from Morganna as she continued calmly telling this section of her story, still smiling at him.

“I connected my mind with his, and showed him a glorious vision, of joining the Church’s Crusade and leading it to victory over the fiendish hordes. It was simply a vision meant to give him a possible direction in life, and to do something constructive. Although I worried about the poor man’s soul, I was still convinced in the necessity of the Crusade, and figured even if he didn’t amount to much at least the man would have the chance at vengeance by skewing a few demons in their own home.”

As Morganna continued to speak, a golden glow briefly surrounded her again. When it faded, her features were completely different. Ander’s growing horror was only magnified by the recognition of Morganna’s new face – the face of his veteran instructor at Dawn’s Hope.

“Did you think angels could only assume one human form? I have made use of dozens over the long years.” Morganna said, chuckling in the voice that once barked orders at him, that taught him how to wield a blade.

“I made use of several guises to track the young man’s progress after he came to Dawn’s Hope, driven by what I had shown him. First out of a desire to continue to watch out for him, and later from the conviction that he was somehow special. There was a fire in him, a spirit of greatness untouched by the tragedies he had experienced. I certainly had not put it there, but I had given it direction. And now I molded it, forged it into the weapon of the gods as I had promised in my vision to that young man. I suppose . . . in a way . . . I taught that man like a mother teaches her son, and . . . I suppose . . . I came to view him as such. The son I could never have . . . I was so worried about him when he first set out on the Crusade as a newly-ordained paladin. But like any mother, my heart swelled with pride as he succeeded – nay, thrived – on the battlefield, and grew into the warrior who fulfilled that vision I had for him. And he – you – went on to become the greatest Lord General my Church has ever known!”

Ander’s mind whirled at these revelations, both personal and existential. He could feel the firmament of his beliefs, and his world view, crumbling and shifting beneath his feet. He wasn’t sure what to do now, but he could feel the familiar righteous rage starting to ignite.

“Why!?” He rasped. “If you’re not lying to me now, then why did you turn away!? All this sacrifice, all this effort – why did you throw it all away by forsaking your oaths to the Valkyrie!?”

“BECAUSE IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING!” Morganna screamed back, matching Ander’s glare with one of her own. She paused a moment, and then continued in a quieter voice, but one that was still trembling with rage.

“Just before your last great success leading the Crusade in conquering the Eighth Level, I was approached by a very old associate. Dacian, avatar of Athelion, or the Hierarch as he now referred to himself. My shock at his survival turned to horror as I realized what he had become, but he had something he wanted to show me. My horror only deepened as he pulled out a long elegant feather that shone with its own inner light. The feather came from Marisiel, and he offered it to me as proof of his claims. He then went on to explain that Marisiel was in the custody of his ally the Baron of Gast and that I was to make no attempt to free her. Furthermore, Marisiel had never been down in the Hells – she had been found by some mortal explorers who discovered her in the ruins of the destroyed city! Do you understand, my son? The madness of it all? The Crusade’s entire purpose had been to rescue Marisiel from the Hells, but it could never succeed because she was never there to begin with! All of those innocent paladins, every last one of those poor souls, damned and lost forever for nothing! NOTHING!”

Morganna’s anger faded with a sigh, and she slumped, weary as she continued in an exhausted tone.

“At first I didn’t want to believe it, but eventually I accepted it as the truth. I was so angry then. I felt betrayed, both by Miriam and Marisiel, led by them into leading humanity on a tragic goose chase that consumed many of the best humans I ever met. Perhaps Miriam had known about Marisiel’s condition all along, and simply lied to me so I would be complacent in the damnation of so many righteous souls. Perhaps due to the interference from the profane ritual’s energies, Her omnipotence failed Her and She really did believe Marisiel was lost in the Hells. I did not know what to believe, and then I realized I did not care. Because it didn’t matter why this happened, only that I had sent so many people into the maw of the Hells after a nonexistent goal.”

Morganna snorted and shook her head.

“After that, I knew I could no longer follow the Valkyrie. So I set out on my own path. Miriam is right about one thing, however – my Church is corrupt. No human institution is immune to its escalating seduction. So even limited to my indirect control, I simply had to manipulate the right people into the positions of power to get what I wanted. My only price was for them to cancel the Crusade – I understand it was still a hotly contested issue at the time even so. By the time you returned triumphant from the Eight Level, the matter had been decided, although it would be more of a slow withdrawal rather than a sudden stop.”

Morganna smiled sadly at Ander.

“I understand you raised quite a fuss when you found out the news. When you resigned and left the Church in disgust, I almost followed you to explain. But I wasn’t sure you would even believe me, or even if you did what good it would do. You’ve always been headstrong, Ander, and I was afraid if you chose not to understand you would expose me. Or the knowledge of all that I have done, you included, would destroy you. So I let you wander off alone and confused, and for that I am sorry.”

“Confused? I wasn’t confused then, I was frustrated and angry. And you still haven’t explained all . . . this!” Ander retorted, gesturing angrily at the surrounding walls. Morganna took another involuntary step back, and then returned Ander’s glare.

“Fine. So after you left, I spent the intervening years consolidating my hold on the Church and figuring out what to do. I knew the Valkyrie would not tolerate my disobedience forever, regardless of what I could tell Her regarding Dacian’s treachery and Marisiel’s fate. Shifting Her focus from me to the Baron of Gast would not spare me from Her wrath. And in a way, Dacian and his pet Baron’s goals were aligned with my own – namely, thwarting Miriam’s will. So I reached out to them, to see about an alliance.”

“From defying the Valkyrie to joining forces with the man who wanted to release Azguloth. You certainly didn’t waste any time choosing a different path, did you?” Ander growled, earning a frown of displeasure from Morganna.

“This was about survival! Not just my own, but my Church’s survival! For all I knew Miriam would decide because I had founded it, my Church had become tainted as well and needed to be destroyed! Does that sound familiar, Ander!?”

Ander winced as Miriam’s words from their last meeting echoed inside his head. Morganna nodded in satisfaction.

“Anyway. It wasn’t a full alliance, just an exchange of information . . . and a few key personnel. I still wasn’t even in full control of the Church yet, so the Exarches are to blame for the specific deals made. Except for one deal, I suppose. Still feeling rather petty about Marisiel’s role in all this, I arranged for one of our worst inquisitors, a Brother Corwin, to be transferred to Ironheart to help the Baron break her. The man was a depraved psychopath, the sort attracted to the work of the Inquisitors but lacking the moral integrity necessary for proper work. I understand he was quite successful at making up for the fact that Marisiel never did experience the Hells. His services also resulted in the Church acquiring some very interesting information from the Baron regarding soul crystals. So for me it was a win-win exchange.”

Morganna paused for a moment to frown at Ander.

“And then you came back. Sent by Miriam to “cleanse” the Church. I always knew the Valkyrie would express Her wrath eventually, but I never suspected She would send you. You are of course the natural choice – the charismatic war hero to rally the masses, and the one person I would hesitate to destroy. It was only dumb luck and your own arrogance that led to your capture – I had set up the binding circle with the expectation that Miriam might send one of my sisters to assassinate my puppet Council. Turns out the magic works just as well on elevated humans.”

Morganna shook her head yet again, this time with a smirk on her face.

“Your existence still provided me with a problem however. At the time I assumed that you were a willing and knowledgeable participant – that Miriam had told you everything or at least enough to fully understand what you were doing. That level of knowledge was dangerous to me, and I assumed despite knowing full well what was going on, you agreed to come back and kill me.”

Morganna chuckled.

“I guess I made a lot of incorrect assumptions about you, but it certainly wasn’t the first time I made such a mistake. I knew Miriam would just send you back if I killed you, so I had to put you in an out of the way place. Ironheart worked perfectly for that. Unfortunately some of the Council members wanted their pound of flesh, wanted to study you, and I didn’t have the influence to deny their request. I understand the last fifteen years were rather unpleasant for you, and I am sorry for that as well.”

“Unpleasant doesn’t begin to describe it. And you have still failed to answer my question. Why have you done this!?” Ander snarled, finding himself losing patience now that Morganna had divulged most of her secrets.

“Legacy. I wanted to make sure that something remained despite my failures, that no matter what the Valkyrie did I would have accomplished at least one good thing. After you showed up, I knew I didn’t have much time left so I accelerated the project and assumed direct control of the Church now that the work is nearly complete. You are welcome to believe whatever you want about me, but please understand that I never wanted to throw away so many people for no reason.”

Morganna took a deep breath, and then launched her final explanation.

“I canceled the Crusade after I discovered its true purpose was impossible to accomplish. But I never forgot the sacrifices already made, and swore to myself that I would give meaning to all those senseless damnations. It was always my intent to renew the Crusade at a later date, to make the officially stated goal the actual goal, and somehow accomplish the complete extermination of Azguloth’s pets. Thanks to my association with the Baron, I finally discovered exactly how to do that. With the correct combination of arcane brands, angels could be prevented from becoming powerless within the Hells. And with their souls bound into crystals, they could be revived at a later date, saved from permanent damnation in the event of death in battle. I could create an immortal army, one to match the fiends and lock them into eternal battle on their own plane. Humanity would be freed from the threat of ever again being under the fiends’ heel, and in time, we would break the fiends for good.”

Ander snorted.

“So all these angels you have mutilated, they all came here for their own free will?”

Morganna shrugged.

“No. I knew virtually none of them would agree to the procedure, or to serve under the few humans necessary to direct the new Crusade. So I had them begin research into obedience runes as well, to force my sisters to cooperate!”

Morganna paused to jab a finger at Ander.

“Do you understand, my child!? My sisters should have protected humanity, should have never sent you to die in their stead on the gods forsaken darkness of the Hells! I’m simply forcing them all to do what they should have done long ago! This is our war, and it’s time we started being the ones to fight it! And lest you think I am saying this only thanks to the virtue of safety . . .”

Morganna shrugged one shoulder out of her robe, and pulled down the underclothes to reveal the bare flesh. Although only faintly visible even in her true form, the scarred lines of the unholy brands were still there. Satisfied with what she had shown, Morganna shrugged back into her robe.

“I have done monstrous things Ander, but I am not a hypocrite. I would not allow my sisters to suffer anything I was unwilling to undergo myself. The runes are not complete, of course – I was still waiting for Greyson to make the final adjustments to the obedience runes to ensure unquestioning obedience. Once all preparations for the new Crusade were complete, I was going to step down from my position as Speaker, have my brands completed and quietly join the ranks of my sisters. It is the only thing I know to do in order to atone for everything I’ve done, for how I failed humanity.”

Ander grimaced.

“So you have done all this – for what? To assuage your own guilty conscience? And what have you hoped to gain by telling me all this?”

Morganna shrugged.

“In the end, you have the same choice before you as you have always had. You can stand with the Valkyrie, or you can stand with me. But now, I have ensured that you can at last make an informed choice – you know everything now. I can only wonder why the Valkyrie chose to keep such important information from you – or did She simply expect you to follow Her orders blindly?”

Turning away, Morganna walked over to the door. She paused to look back.

“I will give you a few moments of privacy to make your final decision. Will you continue to follow the orders of the Valkyrie despite Her callous disregard for humanity? Or will you join me in heresy, but perhaps a necessary heresy to correct the mistakes of the past? As always, only you can make that choice. But you had better decide quickly, as I will expect your final answer momentarily.”

And with that, Morganna resumes her human form and shoves the door open and steps out, leaving the doorway hanging open behind her. Alone in the hallway again, Ander slumps and gasps for air, suddenly weary. The numerous revelations Morganna had revealed were certainly soul shattering and disturbing, but could he really turn his back on everything he had fought for up to this point?

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh listens in horror as Ander and Morganna exchange harsh words, then he turns to Ander.

"There is nothing I can say that would assuage the shock of what we have just heard. You would say the same to me. Ander? You've had the honor of meeting the Valkyrie. You are wiser in this than I could ever be. Why would Miriam do this, if what the Speaker says is true? Why would she send humanity on a pointless quest to the Hells? If she is so callous that she would throw souls pledged to her to the monsters below, then why is she the moral authority who gives us the strength to fight for the right? I don't know if you can answer that, but I know this. I became a paladin because I wished to fight for what's right, and I cannot be divided in my loyalty. But I will have words with the Speaker when she returns. This cause has become something greater than I could have possibly imagined, and I must know more if I am to stand for it. Whether you stand with Morganna or Miriam in the end does not matter to me, for you will have my support, whatever your decision. "

He then turns to Katashiko.

"I thank you for standing with us in this darkest of times."

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

Standing aside, you allow Morganna to pass by so she may speak with Ander. She goes into the hallway alone, closing the door behind you so that you cannot follow. You hear whispers beyond the door, but muffled by the thick iron, you cannot make out the words. Or at least, you can’t at first – but then you feel a breath caress the back of your neck, frigid instead of warm, and suddenly you can hear every word with perfect clarity. You hear Morganna confirm her identity as an angel, her actions in founding the Church itself, and her excuses for the blasphemy now gripping the Church. When Morganna emerges, she glances at you, but then walks past to rejoin her guards, all of them coiled and waiting for the order to strike. A few moments later, Ander emerges from the hallway as well, his paleness confirming that what you heard had to be true. He nods weakly at your words, and then lays a hand on your shoulder.

“Hondshioh, it’s up to you now. I will be entrusting the fate of our Church to you. Do what you must to ensure its safety – and its purity.”

And then Ander is walking past you, towards Morganna and the assembled Church loyalists. As he walks, he unbuckles the belt holding the sheath of Justice to his waist. He allows the weapon, sheath and all, to fall to the floor behind him and keeps walking.

“I have been asked by the Speaker who I will stand with – the Valkyrie, or Her Church that I have served faithfully for most of my life. The Speaker also revealed several pertinent facts to me, facts of which I have been unaware of during my most recent actions against the Church.”

Ander continues walking forward, beginning to work on the buckle for the belt holding Sin Eater to his side.

“These facts have shaken my faith in my crusade against the Church, and I feel I finally see the truth of the matter at last. And so I have made my decision, and I will give it now so that all present might be witnesses. That there might be no doubt regarding the veracity of my choice, and that it might serve as an example to all who have chosen to follow me in my crusade.”

Gathering up the sheathed blade in his hands, Ander balanced the weapon on his palms, as if holding it up as an offering. As he approached the ranks of assembled guards, Morganna stepped out to meet him. Ander kneeled down, offering the weapon to her. As he did so, the blade snarled softly within its sheath, causing Morganna to wince. Gingerly, she reached out to accept the weapon, her hands curling around the sheath to grip it tightly. As soon as her hands closed around the weapon, Ander released his own grip. And in a blur, moved his hands onto the hilt of the weapon, drawing it from the sheath as Morganna held on to it. The blade howled as it was torn free, the reddish steel seeming to glow with a hungry light at being so close to the disguised angel leader of the Church. And yet even over its hungry cry, Ander’s voice rung out.

“I have chosen to fight! To fulfill my oaths as a paladin! Not to the corrupt Church, but to the Goddess Miram the Valkyrie, whom the Church itself was built to serve!”

Pushing off the floor like a spring, Ander rocketed up and forward from his kneeling position, preparing to strike Morganna even as she rapidly backpedaled way from him. The Speaker of the Church gave a panicked shriek, and it seemed certain that Ander would be able to cut her down before any of the guards could react. But then a pair of daggers come flying out of nowhere, striking with pinpoint precision on the hilt and width of the blade, twisting it out of Ander’s grasp. The blade clatters to the floor with an angry yowl, and Ander swings empty air at the Speaker. Morganna blinks in surprise herself for a moment, but then stops moving backward and smiles confidently. The swarm of guards is on Ander immediately, preventing him from bending down to retrieve Sin Eater. Weaponless, he doesn’t last long against the tide of guards, and is swiftly out of sight, somewhere beneath the stomping, kicking, pummeling crowd. A crowd that rapidly surges down the balcony stairs towards you, Exarch Damont at their head.

“FOR THE VALKYRIE!” Grandmaster Odlak roars, readying his own sword.

“Sod that.” Grandmaster Rickster snorts. “We got in through a secret passage! We can use that to get back out! Come on!” He turns and starts running to one side of the cavernous room, to the small door you had seen Ander and the others emerge from during your recent battle here.

Katashiko stares thoughtfully at the floor beneath the dropped Justice, and then down at the floor at her own feet. She seems to concentrate on her fist for a moment, and then with a mighty yell slams her fist down into the floor at her feet. Nothing seems to happen to the stone there, but the floor beneath Ander’s abandoned blade erupts, flinging the sword twirling into the air. The sheathed blade tumbles end over end, falling down through the air to land at your feet. Katashiko moans and immediately presses one hand to the side of her head.

“Damn . . . warded . . . stone.” She grates out, wheezing.

But even with a way out and Ander’s abandoned sword at your feet, you cannot help but look at the cluster of guards surrounding the downed Lord General. Is there really nothing you can do to help him? And yet, it seems doubtful that you can overcome so many guards, with more starting to stream into the room, with your current numbers. Ander had entrusted the future of his crusade to you, and you would fail him if you fell in battle here.

(This seemed like an appropriate video clip to link. )

Stonefall

The_Snark

Firkas’s lips curled up in disgust.

“Girls don’t belong up in The Hideout. Nobody but people I allow up there belong in the The Hideout for that matter.”

Warily, the youth began to circle you, eyeing you up and down while licking his lips. Instantly your thoughts are drawn to a predator closing on prey, the same sort of look on Firkas’s face matching those of one of the deranged prisoners of Ironheart before they tried to harm you. Or Daddy, for that matter.

“Although . . . maybe I’ll make an exception in this case. Haha, yeah – you show me yours and I’ll show you mine, eh? Of course, you do have that cloak on again. Makes it hard to get a good look at the goods, y’know? Maybe I should take a closer look first, see if it’s worth opening up The Hideout to the likes of you.”

And, his mind already made up, Firkas lunges toward you. Evidently his intention was to just remove the modified cloak covering most of your body (and cleverly concealing your wings). However, whether deliberately or not, he bungled the initial grab, instead manhandling you and running his hands over places that you are dimly aware should be considered offensive by you. As it was, you are merely startled by the sudden violence, and despite a lifetime of training (and multiple lifetimes of memories) to accept the abuse, you instinctively fight back. Which is to say, you try to twist out of his grasp so you can turn and start running again, rather than just stand there and take it.

Unfortunately, by now he has a grip on your cloak, and although you manage to twist out of his grasp, Firkas maintains his grip on the fabric of your cloak. The boy’s arrogant laughter ringing in your ears and the clasp of the cloak painfully digging into your neck, you continue pulling in one direction, trying to twist the cloth out of the boy’s hands. Meanwhile, he pulls in the opposite direction, dragging you forwards a few steps, before the cloth finally gives with a loud snapping rip. The two of you go tumbling backward to the ground in opposite direction, Firkas holding a significant section of your cloak, with the remainder still draped around your shoulders. The boy laughs again as he starts clambering back up onto his feet . . . and then immediately freezes as he looks up at you. It takes only a moment for you to realize that he is staring at your one wing, half-revealed beneath the sundered cloak.

“Wh-what . . . what is this . . . I-I don’t even . . .” The boy mutters, still blinking at you numbly in shock.

(At this point, Mar is free to run off into the woods, hopefully back towards civilization. She can attempt to use Firkas’s shock to get him to help her. Or, y’know, some third option like take advantage of Firkas’s shock to brain him with a rock. It’s what Overwilliam would do. )

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“Mmm . . . ah yes, Xerxes. I assume he gave you the full spiel on joining the winning team – which is to say “Nihilus’s” team.”

There was a certain way to how the Baron said the demon lord’s name, a strange sort of amused disgust. It left you wondering just how the Baron felt about his own dark dealings.

“I am indeed the man to contact – demons don’t tend to like dealing with mortals, and Nihilus is particularly reclusive. Fortunately for you, I have managed to forge a rare bond with him, and serve as his connection to the mortal realm. Fortunately for me, I have already seen your work and know it is impressive enough to pique his interest. However . . . there is a question of commitment.”

The Baron favors you with the confident smirk he greeted you with.

“You’re a bit of a freelancer and a loner, Sohssal. You don’t like to play nice with others, and only do it if you have to. Unfortunately, subservience and teamwork are both important qualities that Nihilus demands from his followers. His plans are intricate, and therefore subject to disruption if his followers don’t follow his orders closely. He – and by extension I – need to know that you won’t try to do your own thing or run off at the first sign of trouble. We need to know that you are committed to his service, and willing to do whatever is asked of you when the time comes.”

The Baron sits back in his chair, causing his image to waver for a moment. He studies you silently for a moment more, and then continues.

“So, you have said that you wish to be a part of this glorious plan, and I have said that you must be fully committed to this if you want in. Since actions speak louder than words, and are indeed the only thing worth mentioning, I want you to show me just how committed you are. Something that once done can’t be undone, and will commit you to this path – because if you try to get off it, it will destroy you. I have a few ideas on suitably irredeemable gestures – why don’t I pitch them, and you decide if any catch your fancy.”

The Baron slowly ticks each option off on his ephemeral fingers.

“First, you could kidnap an angel. Rather passé these days I’m afraid, but it would accomplish the job of putting you firmly on Miriam’s “To Kill” list. I could have the exact summoning ritual sent to you, but from there you’re on your own. You could drag the winged whore along with you when you come here – I’m sure I could find a use for her if you can’t. Alternatively, just summon her, slap her around a bit, maybe do a few unspeakably vile things to her, and then send her home crying to the Valkyrie. Either way, you’ll have pissed the Valkyrie off enough that there will be no safe place for you anywhere in the world, except here aboard the Gastly Truth. I suggest you pack up and get here quickly regardless – the Valkyrie isn’t going to remain passive for much longer. But . . . I’m not sure if angel-napping is grandiose enough for Sohssal the Demon Mage.”

The Baron ticks off another finger.

“So on to Option Two. Nihilus has managed to acquire a lot of support from the other demon lords, or at least what passes for demon lords these days. But there are still a few stubborn holdouts that need to be “convinced”. I can provide you with their names, and I want you to make an example of one of them . . . possibly more if the survivors prove to be particularly thick-headed. No need to bind them or do any sort of heavy lifting – just discorporate them. It won’t accomplish much, but maybe it’ll convince them that it’s better to go along with Nihilus’s plan than be continually inconvenienced with temporary death. It’ll also make you their enemy, and the only way they won’t send reclamation squads to drag your overdue soul down to the Hells is if you stand with Nihilus. I can see how being in permanent fear of reclamation doesn’t make this the perfect choice, however.”

The Baron ticks off a third finger.

“I think you’ll like Option Three however. As you may or may not know, the elves have launched an invasion of the human lands. War has not been officially declared, but that hasn’t stopped the elves from adopting a scorched earth policy. Still . . . they haven’t committed as many atrocities as I’d like, and seem unusually focused for an invasion. It’s almost as if they’re looking for something . . . anyway, the elves aren’t important. What is important is developing the perception that they’re all a race of bloodthirsty monsters hell bent on human extinction. So I need you to create an atrocity for me, one that’s sure to resound in the mind of every human across the kingdom. The elvish invasion force bypassed the city of Amaranth during their invasion of my barony. I want you to go there and raze the city to the ground. No stone standing atop another, no survivors save for the handful you’ve mindraped into believing the elves did it. An entire city, just . . . gone. When the dust settles, there’s bound to be an investigation, and sooner or later one mage oversight group or another will learn who was really responsible. They’ll hunt you down then, Sohssal. There won’t be a place you can hide from them, not for long. You’ve been largely beneath their notice, but after you raze a city they’ll be forced to deal with you. And they will, unless you have a powerful patron to protect you.”

The Baron pauses for a moment, and then shrugs.

“Of course, you can come up with an even more grandiose and permanent gesture than the three I just suggested. Those were, after all, just suggestions off the top of my head. Just let me know what you’re planning to do before you do it, and then come here to the Gastly Truth with the proof once you’re finished. My airship will be above the capital for the foreseeable future, although I wouldn’t wait long before enacting whatever plan you come up with. The Valkyrie is coming.”

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

“Hphm. So it’s like that, huh? Fine. Let’s do this!”

Arguile shouts, lowering his head and charging forward. You run forward to meet his charge with one of your own. The two of you meet with a thunderous clash, and it ends with you plowing forward and sending Arguile backward into the dirt, landing on top of him. You rise up and pull back a fist to send it crashing down, but Arguile comes clawing up after you. He reaches up and cups a hand around your face, digging his thumb down into your right eye socket. You dimly hear Arguile retching as he does this, and temporarily lose vision in that eye. Strangely, the attack doesn’t hurt the way having your eye dug out with someone’s thumb tended to hurt. You still had someone’s thumb in your eye though, and felt the impacts as Arguile swung his other fist up into the opposite side of your head several times.

The blows are enough to dislodge you from your dominant position on top of Arguile, and for a moment you are both lying on the ground side by side. Arguile attempts to crawl over on top of you so he could enjoy the same advantage you just had, but you end those thoughts with a hard knee to the groin. Followed by a hard kick to the left knee that shatters it back in the direction opposite that it should be bending in.

After that exchange, the two of you crawl a bit further away and then stand back up. By the time you both manage to get back up on to your feet, you’re both fully whole once again, although the scars from those horrific injuries remain. Arguile laughs.

“Ha, we’ll be at this all day at this rate! But I have to admit Prime, a thought has just occurred to me. That poor girl . . . she took a pretty bad hit to the face just before we started our final dance. With both of us locked into immortal combat here, who’s going to look after her? Poor thing might bleed to death with an injury like that.”

An ephemeral shadow in this world of shadows made real, Sara continued to writhe on the ground a short distance away, her face obscured by her hands. She was undoubtedly injured, and quite possibly badly from the way she was acting. You had enacted this battle of the wills in desperation, and were pretty confident that in the end, Arguile would be the loser. After all, he already was one, and a coward for taking his own life on top of that. But you weren’t sure how long finishing him off would take, and however long that was may be time that Sara didn’t have.

“You’re nothing but prisoner scum, Prime. All these years you’ve struggled to survive, and for what? Your family and friends are all dead. Your own wife abandoned you for the Baron – oh yes, he told me all about that! By all accounts you’ve got absolutely nothing to live for! So why do it, why keep struggling? What is it, just simple spite – is that all you’re living for now!? Living to spite the Baron – well guess what Prime? He doesn’t give a crap about you! No one does! You’re just a pathetic piece of prison garbage clinging to life, a ghost in the shell of metal! And however long it takes me to finish you off is how much less time that injured little brat has left!”

And with that, Arguile stops trying to talk you to death and rushes forward, intent on resuming the quasi-physical part of your confrontation.

(As Mortal Combat would say at this point – “Finish Him!” Or continue on if you think we can squeeze some more interesting taunts and fight scenes from Incom vs. Arguile, Part Deux)

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

“What!?”

Your father gasped, blinking in shock at your news regarding Cynthia’s utter betrayal. As you shifted the topic of conversation from the traitors to him, he recovered his previous stern expression as his eyes narrowed.

“Damnit girl, warlocks have infiltrated the Canticles in force, and you want to talk about us!!?”

Your father growls, glaring at you. For a moment you both simply exchange glowers, but then Jean looks away with an angry sigh.

“Fine. Yes, I put in an application to get permission to summon a demon for the purposes of using its blood in a cure for your mother. And the then High Council of the Canticles rejected it, as was their right. Such magic is dangerous, not just in itself but of its corrupting nature – if one person uses it successfully then others may follow! And maybe the next time or the time after, something goes terribly wrong! *That* is why there are such strict rules regarding the ancient and forbidden magics, and why there is a procedure to get permission to use them!”

Jean turns back to look directly at you, jabbing a finger right back at you.

“I did nothing improper with my request! And no, I wasn’t going to tell you – what purpose would that serve? Your mother – my wife – would still be dead, and you would have one more excuse to use in justifying your disdain for the rules!”

Jean snorts and shakes his head.

“But nobody could ever tell you anything, could they? I suppose no one would ever mistake you as anyone’s daughter but mine, but that’s no excuse. Unless you think it’s proper procedure upon finding an old tome to sneak down to the basement and recklessly enact a ritual from it!”

A strange glint had come into Jean’s eyes now as he continued to growl at you. You had seen your father angry before or otherwise upset, but he always kept a tight rein on his emotions. Usually he was just that cold stern wall, revealing nothing of what he was thinking. This half-mad fury he had suddenly worked himself up into was something new entirely that you had never seen before.

“You could have been blinded! Or killed by that damn ritual! Cherise could have perished as well, or you could have blown up the entire mansion! Those sorts of risks are not a joke, some sort of story your elders pass around just to hold you back! Bad things can happen when you toy with magic you don’t fully understand! You’re just lucky Alfred was there, gods bless him, to cancel the ritual and save you before any permanent damage was done!”

Jean sits back in his chair, folding his hands on his lap. A cold fury replaces the heat in his voice.

“Did you know the High Council considered expelling you for that fiasco? Some of them took the unsanctioned usage of ancient magic very seriously. One even suggested you be sent to Ironheart! Ironheart!”

Now this was something you hadn’t known about your teenage exile. Expulsion from the Canticles was considered a very serious matter – as a secret society, they couldn’t afford to let former members roam free. In all likelihood, you would have been confined to one of the Canticles’ secret prisons, which would have branded you a warlock in all but name.

“The whole matter was ridiculous, but it was Canticle politics at its finest. Old bastards trying to get at me through my family, same as always! But I wouldn’t have it, not this time! I argued with them for days, dug through old records for precedents, rallied the lower members for support, and called in every old favor I had! I got them all so far backed into a corner that they had to give you just a year suspension – a slap on the wrist compared to what they were planning! *I* did that! And I saw to it that when you departed on your self-imposed exile, it was uneventful, instead of the circus it could have become with how frenzied some members of the Canticles were over this incident!”

This was another piece of information you hadn’t known about the fallout from you ill-fated ritual. Your father waves a hand dismissively at you, snapping it up off his lap.

“But you are as ungrateful as you are stubborn! My daughter through and through . . . well, I’m sorry if your childhood was not to your liking. I did the best I could to raise you, but I’m not your mother. I tried to teach you by example, and if that means I was a harsh teacher then so be it! The world is a cruel place, and you can’t always get by with just talent and a little luck. I’m glad you grew up to be strong, but you’re going to have to soon learn there’s more to being a member of the Canticles than just magic. Now do you have any other questions for me, or can we return to the matter at hand!? What are you going to do next?”

The Capital

Dorizzit

It’s quite . . . simple.

The voice explains in its hissing lilt.

Our two essences . . . become . . . one. Not Korram . . . not Purifier . . . but something . . . new. Powerful . . . invincible.

The voice pauses a moment, but then continues, more vehement than before.

I know . . . you. Korram . . . Alstan. You once merged . . . with Calcifer. But the union . . . was . . . incomplete. Calcifer . . . did not . . . want . . . to be joined. I wish . . . only to serve. To feel . . . the pleasures . . . of flesh. To taste . . . the ashes . . . of our . . . enemies . . . as we . . . burn . . . their world.

Another pause, and then the voice speaks again, stronger still, and the room starts to become swelteringly hot.

You . . . cannot . . . win alone. I can . . . give you all . . . the power . . . you’ll ever need. More than . . . command of flame. Together . . . we shall be . . . flame! With me . . . you can . . . raze this world . . . and reforge it . . . into something . . . more suitable . . . to your desires. Nothing . . . will be . . . impossible. All you need . . . is to . . . accept . . . my offer . . . and summon . . . me into . . . your world. I . . . can show . . . you how.

Immediately the room turns cold again, and the voice is a mere whisper once more.

I . . . await . . . your answer.

WhiteKnight777

To your surprise, Shiakti answered your demand immediately, with no arguments or hagging.

“Ta Baron expected as much.” Shiakti said, reaching into her cloak. She pulled forth not a weapon, but a folded piece of heavy paper. The paper seemed to be decorated with elegant designs and flowing script. With a flick of her wrist, the Huntress sent the piece of paper twirling into your hand.

“Both ah yah be invited to tah wedding between his son and ta Countass Amelia Ashargrin, held at tah Cathedral ere in the city tomorrow night. It be as neutral ground as can be found ere in tah city. Dress appropriately, show tah card to tah guards outside tah Cathedral, and maybe bring someting nice for tah bride and groom. Tah Baron will meet yah before tah wedding, and maybe afta if details still remain. Fair enough? Ghood.”

And with that, Shiakti was gone again. Pushing herself up to her feet, Fianna began nonchalantly brushing herself off.

“I do not know if a wedding hosted by the Baron is exactly a neutral meeting point. But it seems that is about as far as he is willing to go.”

Fianna observes in her emotionless tone. She pauses a moment, and then continues to voice her opinion.

“Do you think that is because he fears us, or because he does not feel it necessary to court us? And if he already has Shiakti as his personal assassin, and wishes to make allies of us, do you think he has contacted the other Lords of Blood?”

Fianna pauses a moment more, and then begins to gather her things.

“I would advise caution. Did you see Shiakti’s eyes? When we stood together on the cusp of immortality, she was full of energy, a primal fountain of life, and her eyes reflected that. Now those same eyes are dead – what could the Baron have done to her to cause such a thing?”

OverWilliam

Melcara’s obvious concern over your darkening mood changes to curiosity as you offer to meet another of your friends. She takes your offered hand, holding it in a soft grip that belied the hand-pulping strength that was there.

“Another of your friends? Will there be as much, er, excitement there as well?” She asks with a slight smile as you lead her out of the tavern and back into the street. From here, you knew the way well, and walked it in a haze of reminiscence. Melcara seemed to sense your distraction with the past, and respected it by remaining silent. Or perhaps, she figured out no answers would be forthcoming after her first whispered question was ignored. Either way, you were left alone to your thoughts, which was how it had to be when you visited Karami.

You had sworn to protect the young girl, and make sure no further harm came to her. Much as you had made similar oaths to Teareal and Adame, to Garm before them, and all those unfortunate souls down in the Hells. But Karami was different, and not just because she was the first innocent you chose to protect. Your actions with her were a form of atonement, and your brooding memories as you went to her home a sort of penance.

You were certainly no shining paragon of virtue, no great hero others could seek to emulate. But you had worked hard at making up for your past, and you were indisputably a better man than you once were. There may be no atonement great enough for the worst of your sins however. You had hesitated to reveal them even to Melcara, had never spoken them aloud before. A murdered family, a tortured girl – those particular vile sins of your past are what fill your mind now. What you had done for Karami since then couldn’t make up for that, but perhaps it would be enough.

At least Brock’s knowledge of this matter couldn’t be used against you – his hands were just as stained as yours if not more so. But his statement about Karami missing you suggested that he had been nosing around in your business while you were conveniently away. If he had hurt her in any way, you would hunt the bastard down and break his neck, consequences be damned!

Fortunately, there did not seem to be any outward signs of harmful meddling on Brock’s part as you arrived at the house. The modest two-story home was as you remembered it, red brick and dirty white shutters and all. Discretely peering in through the ground floor window, you could see beyond the half-drawn curtains that the family was sitting down to a late lunch or perhaps an early dinner.

Although the dark memories had faded, you still hesitated to step up and knock. They would all know who you were, of course, and they had said you were always welcome. The middle-aged couple you had entrusted Karami to were unable to have children of their own, and so saw you has a godsend. And Karami was, well Karami . . . who practically worshipped you. You prayed she never discovered the other half of your involvement in her life. Even so, your sudden disappearance from their lives must have been strange, and you had no idea what Brock had been doing here. It was possible you would not be welcome here any longer after all. But . . . the only way to discover that was to knock. Melcara seemed to sense your hesitation.

“What’s wrong Tare? You seem nervous – are these people dangerous, like your other old friends?”

(You are welcome to play out as much of Tare’s subsequent meeting with Karami and her family. I’m not sure if you were planning on having Tare just pop in to say hello, or if you had another crazy plan in mind . . . and knowing you. )

Gorgondantess

At your question, Maurice quirks an eyebrow.

“What do I see? Hrm.”

She stares at you intently for a moment, and then shakes her head.

“Interesting . . . I don’t see anything at all. I didn’t think anything of it before now, as I merely assumed you shielded your true nature. Such things are possible, even for humans if they are magically gifted, but that’s not the case here is it? It’s more like you are similar to animals or a force of nature – no soul to be stained with good or evil actions.”

Maurice falls silent, and doesn’t seem to react as you describe your intentions regarding the Baron. Then she finally speaks, softly as if speaking any louder would increase the odds it would come true.

“The Baron has already committed many evil acts. Schemer though he may be, he will eventually enact his plans, and this world will burn in his wake. I pray his plans do not come to fruition before Justice finds him.”

You return back home to find the town rebuilt, although not exactly how you imagined it. It seemed humans had to assign meaningless pomp and circumstance to everything they did, instead of just simply doing it. At your expressed disdain, the two men scramble back up to their feet, nodding to show their understanding. Pathetic fools. They’d just get something else wrong later, you were growing increasingly sure of it.

All else is forgotten, however, upon learning news of your “visitor”. With those hateful blades, there is no doubt a man similar to your assailants was awaiting you inside the church. Taking all precautions, you summon your armor around your form and charge into the building, sword drawn. The readied weapon may or may not prove necessary – the robed man sitting in a meditative pose turns at your entrance but makes no hostile gestures. Instead, he smoothly slides to his feet and throws back his cowl.

All in all, the man seems unremarkable. There is a wiry hardness to him, and a confidence in his green eyes that speaks of many years of training, but nothing else that would difference him from the rest of the sheeple you now herded. He greets you with a slight bow – and a smirk. He sizes you up for a moment, and then addresses you in a smooth voice, keeping his hands out from his sides – where you can see them.

“So this is the great Archdemon. Interesting – you’re not as tall as I would have thought. But then, in the stories your ilk is always taller than the highest building, with a shadow large enough to reach up and devour the sun!”

The man makes a tsk sound and ***** his head, still examining you.

“But in the end, that is all they are – stories. Vocal accounts, passed down through the generations. I’ve always wanted to behold the truth with my own eyes, and I can see that you are impressive, in your own way. My name is Omicron Delta S’Gamma D’Epsilon, indicating that I am the third son of the seventy-fourth generation which traces its heritage back to the seventh founding family. That is the only name I have ever been given, although I prefer to go simply by Omicron. You may call me whatever you like – that is certainly within your right as Archdemon.”

The man brings his hands around to clasp them together in front of him.

“So now that introductions are out of the way, to business. I am a member of an organization known as the Dusk Wardens, although I am not here as their representative – this meeting will have an entirely different tenor if I were. Instead I have come here alone and surrendered my weapons because I wish to talk. I wish to learn for myself if the stories are true – and if they are I suspect you will immediately tear my throat out and drink my soul, or some other nonsense. But if they are not . . . well, I suppose we shall simply have to see what follows.”

The man separates his hands again, motioning to one of the nearby pews.

“So shall we sit and talk, or are you going to kill me? And if we are going to talk, then I propose a trade of information – a question answered in return for a question asked. Does that sound fair to you?”

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh takes Justice up from the floor and looks about him. He could run, but that would mean leaving Ander behind. He was the leader now, but what kind of leader would he be if he abandoned a friend in need? But no, a paladin did not abandon his friends, but honored sacrifice freely given.

"Come on, there's nothing more we can do here."

He picks Katashiko up and gives her his shoulder for support, his other hand tight on Justice's hilt.

Before he heads after the Grandmasters, however, he turns and looks at the retreating Morganna.

"You did more than turn on The Valkyrie. You turned your back on every single principle you were created to uphold. No paladin would agree to stand beside you, no good man would ever serve you. You may take Ander, but his quest for true justice and light in this world will live on in me and the others he inspired this day. You haven't won a victory this day, Speaker. I know just what you are now, and I swear, on Ander's sword, you will pay for your evil."

He turns and leaves.

((And here is an appropriate video clip of my own! ))

[Gorgondantess]

“Interesting . . . I don’t see anything at all. I didn’t think anything of it before now, as I merely assumed you shielded your true nature. Such things are possible, even for humans if they are magically gifted, but that’s not the case here is it? It’s more like you are similar to animals or a force of nature – no soul to be stained with good or evil actions.”

"Well, I'd expected as much. It's only appropriate, really."

“So this is the great Archdemon. Interesting – you’re not as tall as I would have thought. But then, in the stories your ilk is always taller than the highest building, with a shadow large enough to reach up and devour the sun!”

The man makes a tsk sound and ***** his head, still examining you.

“But in the end, that is all they are – stories. Vocal accounts, passed down through the generations. I’ve always wanted to behold the truth with my own eyes, and I can see that you are impressive, in your own way. My name is Omicron Delta S’Gamma D’Epsilon, indicating that I am the third son of the seventy-fourth generation which traces its heritage back to the seventh founding family. That is the only name I have ever been given, although I prefer to go simply by Omicron. You may call me whatever you like – that is certainly within your right as Archdemon.”

The man brings his hands around to clasp them together in front of him.

“So now that introductions are out of the way, to business. I am a member of an organization known as the Dusk Wardens, although I am not here as their representative – this meeting will have an entirely different tenor if I were. Instead I have come here alone and surrendered my weapons because I wish to talk. I wish to learn for myself if the stories are true – and if they are I suspect you will immediately tear my throat out and drink my soul, or some other nonsense. But if they are not . . . well, I suppose we shall simply have to see what follows.”

The man separates his hands again, motioning to one of the nearby pews.

“So shall we sit and talk, or are you going to kill me? And if we are going to talk, then I propose a trade of information – a question answered in return for a question asked. Does that sound fair to you?”

All the tall tales these Dusk Wardens had spread about her. Why on earth would she want to be taller than the tallest building? Highly impractical. And drinking human souls? She wouldn't want to consume any part of a human, let alone their souls! That would just be disgusting. There are far better and more palatable things to assimilate, such as the pew next to her. Or fish.
"That sounds like a... reasonable proposition. Mutually beneficial, in fact. First, however, I'd like you to take off your robes, and any clothing you have under that. I've found your people to be brimming with those nasty knives.
In the meantime, excuse me for a moment. I have someone I... need here."
She strides out of the building, fetching Maurice and bringing her inside. Before she can say anything, she silences her. "Save any observations you might have. For now, sit down and make yourself comfortable. And I suggest you do the same," she says, gesturing to the man.
She sits across from him, ready to do business.
"Well then. I'll start with this: while I understand the concept of a demon, I have never heard the phrase 'Archdemon' before, and of course have never associated myself with such. So then, do tell me: just what is this Archdemon you speak of? And why do you people believe me to be it?"

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber nodded, scratching at his chin. He'd begun to grow stubble - a very strange feeling. He'd have to take a razor to his throat before they attended the wedding. Fianna's words snapped him out of his rambling thoughts, and he nodded in agreement. "Yes. I'm sure the people there will be his. But if we're lucky, there will be enough important guests there that he won't risk a full-on confrontation." Umber grimaced at her assesment of Shiakti. "I'd noticed the same thing. And I do not like it. She's like a caged animal, and I have no desire to avoid the same fate. Shiakti was a friend once, and if the Baron has harmed her, I intend to see him answer for it. As for the others... Well, I can't imagine Gilgeam working *for* anyone - but I would have said the same of Shiakti, too. Kartul's far too arrogant to work for a mortal... Marialta will probably be with Gilgeam. But our Angel of Death... well, if the baron has Shiakti, I would not be surprised to see the Herald of Silence somewhere near."

He took Fianna's hand and gave it a light, reassuring squeeze. "But in any case, we'll have to attend the wedding. And as our old friend said, we must make sure we come with appropriate gifts and accoutrements..." He gave Fianna a grin, took her arm, and led her from the tomb. They had *plans* to make.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

In response to Melcara's first question, Tare offered only a distant smile and a grateful squeeze of her hand, as though to say, Come with me-- You'll see. The walk through the city back to the quiet corner where that one house stood began full of sweet memories, but grew harder with every step. Though he periodically drifted into daydreams sparked by the familiar surroundings, he never quite let go of the awareness of the hand in his, Melcara following quietly beside him, at once stronger than he could even understand and at the same time more vulnerable than he could even see. He found that he could draw strength from her quiet trust, and in a way that was frightening-- but more so, comforting.

When they arrived at the little house and Melcara asked again what to expect behind that door, Tare smiled again, but this time with more pain. "No, they are not dangerous-- if anything, I am ten times more dangerous to them than they are to me. ...Well. In a way, one of them is more dangerous than anything else in this whole world." Tare caught a glimpse of her eyes through the window, and was forced to turn away. He sat down on the step rising up to the door and sucked in a deep breath before letting it shakily escape. Melcara watched him with confused concern and lowered herself to a seat beside him, eyes full of questions. Tare decided that it was time to answer some of them.

Time to return her trust.

"...A long time ago, I made a mistake. All my life I've been a thief-- I have made a life of taking things from others that did not belong to me... But that night I took a young girl's parents from her. And then... watched as she was Sold to the worst kinds of humanity, as though the riches stolen already from her and her parents was not enough. I watched all this happen and did nothing, because I was afraid of what the others--others like Brock--would think of me. Somehow my fear for my reputation outweighed the value of three lives." Contempt saturated his voice-- contempt directed entirely toward himself. "She was 8 at the time, hardly old enough for what they meant for her, but by doing what we did we condemned her to a life of abuse of every kind. After everyone else was gone, I... I used my cut of the heist, and a good bit more besides, to buy her back. Too little and too late, my toothless conscience bit harder than I thought it could." Tare fell silent for a moment, considering something. This was literally the first time anyone had heard the truth. And the first person to hear his confession just happened to be an Angel. Apropos, perhaps.

"Karami is... special. You'll see when you meet her. She is... Clean. Innocent. She was old enough to remember back then-- before we came along. She remembers her parents, and she still dreams about them sometimes. And she doesn't hold a grudge. She sometimes wakes up crying, but smiling at the same time. Can you believe that? She knows her parents were killed. Most of that night is a blur for her, again my doing, but she remembers the fire. And she remembers the Slavers. And she remembers me coming 'out of nowhere' to 'rescue' her from what was about to be the rest of her life. A guardian angel, the answer to her prayers." He almost choked on the bile in his throat, his stomach revolting against the words, even spoken in sarcasm, coming from his mouth.

"What we did was Murder. The plainest, ugliest, most horrible kind of murder-- there wasn't even a good reason for it. We just wanted their stuff." Tare took a shuddering breath. But the cruelest irony of all, when she should despise me more than death itself, she adores me. Me!" The word came out as a quiet cry, burning in his throat and his eyes, making them water. "And the older she grows, smarter and more beautiful every day, the more time passes-- the greater a coward I become, because I cannot force myself to tell her who I really am. Why she deserves to hate me more than I hate myself. I am the king of Thieves, and the most despicable among them, because no matter how much gold or treasure others have stolen... I have stolen a Love that does not belong to me, and now I don't know how to survive without it."

Tare was quiet again for a long time, fighting down tears.

"I am a creature of darkness, in my heart I know that's all I can be. I hide in the dark because I can't bear to look at myself in the light. But Karami... Karami shines light into my darkness, and even from a distance her innocence stings my eyes and burns my skin to ash. So I hold her close to my chest, despite the pain, because I know it is the only way I may be saved. She is my torment, my atonement for sins long past, and I know that she will destroy me. But maybe some day, when there is no more flesh on my bones for the light to burn, I may be forgiven. How cruel whatever gods there are must be!" He cried, anguished. "And yet, if I endure this pain all my life it will not bring her parents back to life, and so it will never be enough."

Finally, Tare stood. "...But by far the worst part is that, when she does find out some day what I did and who I have always been, the Betrayal will only hurt her again. I am doomed to cause her even more heartbreak when she discovers that the man she idolizes is actually the lowest scum in the city, Thief, Liar, and Murderer, all three. I can't escape it, only delay the inevitable." He offered Melcara a hand and helped her stand. His eyes were dry and he smiled a small, tired smile. "Would you like to come in? I'm sure she'd love to meet you."

If Melcara is willing, Tare knocks quietly on the door.

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan
Tavern

Korram listens to the voice, his natural caution warring with his need for the power that the entity offered to him. He allows Purifier to lay forth the details of the deal, his fist propped in front of his mouth. Once the disembodied voice of Purifier goes silent once more, he stands and walks to the center of the room. For a few seconds, he paces. His need slowly overrides his caution, until he stops walking and stands still.

"Last question. If we...fuse...you said the result would be neither of us. Does that include our minds?"

Spoiler

Show

For the sake of expediency, if the answer is no, or if Korram's personality would remain mostly dominant, he will agree to the deal.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

”So...what you're asking me to do is to make so many enemies that the only safe place to stand is with you and yours. I can't say I'm eager, but I'm also not surprised you'd ask for this level of 'devotion'," Sohssal said. He would smirk back if he still had a face, but he settled for tilting his head to the side a little.

Still, what choice did he have? Even if there wasn't currently a war, it was obvious they were going to start one. But this was still an opportunity for him. He could find a way, with or without the Baron, to turn everyone against his potential enemies.

”How about I do something that would still be useful for me? I shall take everything I have learned from imbuing myself with demonic power and create a contagion. In such a dilute form, it won't make a dramatic transformation, but it will be something easily exploited... and it would turn everyone infected into a potential enemy of the Valkyrie,” he suggested.

Regardless of how the Baron responded, Sohssal then cut off the spell. If the Baron approved, he would simply excuse himself to start work on the project (after silently suppressing his doubts). If he disapproved, then he would simply claim to start thinking of something else. Before he actually got to work, he would need time to rest and regain energy, not to mention check on his associates.

[Lonna]

Pyrene

With the detail of external involvement clarified, Pyrene gave a tight smile and bobbed another curtsy to indicate that she was satisfied with the deal. When the Duke had gone, she relaxed slightly and turned to follow the faithful butler. She was tired, and desperately wanted a bed, or even a patch of floor where she could sleep in peace. Perhaps it was because Pyrene was so tired that she barely flinched at Albert's sudden, painful grip and threatening words. She merely met his eyes, letting him see in her own the despair that hung just beyond words, the despair of knowing that the man who controlled her beloved sister's fate had no reason to keep Ariella safe, and far too many reasons to torment her.

"I understand."

***************

Pyrene slept almost constantly for the first few days in Duke Volesin's mansion, experience having taught her to restore her energies while she could. Garthax, on the other hand, had no need of sleep and no patience for her sleep debt, and frequently woke her up from the verge of sleep with inane questions. By the end of the second day, a frustrated Pyrene sent him out to explore the city with strict instructions to find her at the wedding, adding that he was not to be seen and above all not to be caught by anyone in the meanwhile.

Eventually, however, even her exhausted body was satisfied, and Pyrene started to regret sending away the only person she might have talked to. And since she had had several more disturbingly real dreams each time she slept, she desperately wanted to talk to someone.

Her isolation did, however, give her leisure to think about her magic, and even to experiment a certain amount. Less pleasantly, it also gave her opportunity to think about Titania, though her experiments in attempting to contact her were much more hesitant than her experiments with controlling her newly discovered powers.

At last the day of the wedding arrived, or so Pyrene could only assume when Albert brought in a gorgeous confection of red and gold silk. Once he left, she eagerly looked over the dress - and almost immediately began to swear, loudly and vehemently, with an inventiveness that betrayed her street urchin beginnings. She had no problems with the near-scandalous design, and even the suggestion of shackles and the exposure of her brand were bearable, but the recognition of the mage collar infuriated her.

Then she recognized the over-all design of the dress, and cold fear drowned her rage. It could be coincidence, but Pryene didn't trust coincidence. Powerful people made coincidences happen, and far too many powerful people were interested in Pyrene for her liking. And at least one of them certainly had access to Ariella.

"Damn," muttered Pyrene. Compared to her earlier tirade, the epithet was positively demure. "It seems I have no choice. At least the collar isn't locked; I can work with that."

Opening the door to where Albert waited, Pyrene quietly and politely requested the makeup that had been offered. When it arrived, she dressed quickly, closing the collar reluctantly around her neck. Then she set about applying just enough makeup, professionally enhancing her looks without appearing to have used any cosmetics at all. Then she turned to her brand. It was clearly impossible to disguise it completely - naturally there was none of the thick cream that Edward had provided - but she was at least able to make it less noticeable, as if the scar was years old rather than months. Finally, taking a deep breath, Pryene opened the door and gave Albert a professional smile.

"I am ready."

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

“Ha, we’ll be at this all day at this rate! But I have to admit Prime, a thought has just occurred to me. That poor girl . . . she took a pretty bad hit to the face just before we started our final dance. With both of us locked into immortal combat here, who’s going to look after her? Poor thing might bleed to death with an injury like that.”

Seeing Sara writhe on the ground Incom feels his soul rage. In trying to protect her it seems that he may have failed completely. The severity of her wound eluded his gaze but such a blow to such a small girl, it would most likely not be good. Clenching a spiritual fist he turns back towards Arguile as he resumes speaking.

“You’re nothing but prisoner scum, Prime. All these years you’ve struggled to survive, and for what? Your family and friends are all dead. Your own wife abandoned you for the Baron – oh yes, he told me all about that! By all accounts you’ve got absolutely nothing to live for! So why do it, why keep struggling? What is it, just simple spite – is that all you’re living for now!? Living to spite the Baron – well guess what Prime? He doesn’t give a crap about you! No one does! You’re just a pathetic piece of prison garbage clinging to life, a ghost in the shell of metal! And however long it takes me to finish you off is how much less time that injured little brat has left!”

The last sentence strikes him and icy coldness washes over Incom as Arguile rushes forward. Standing still Incom watches him rush forward, takes a single step forward, lightly slapping away the fish and slams his other fist with a resounding crack into Arguile’s throat. Stumbling back in shock as he tries to gasp for breath Incom steps forward, wrapping his arms around Arguiles back and slams him down onto his knee with two sickly cracks as both shoulders are violently dislocated.

“Immortality does not equal invulnerability you bastard.”

Kicking out towards Arguile’s groin Incom is rewarded with a weak gasp of pain from him.

“You are right, we don’t have time to fight this out till I beat your soul into non-existence. However I don’t need to do that. Ladies, are we done?”

Angelic Katashiko and Demon Sara both appear with Katashiko looking smug and Sara laughing at Arguile as she starts to cut him with her fingernails, which seemed to have suddenly grown several inches and start filleting Arguile. Katashiko shakes her head yes however her face is long and sad.

“My... counterpart willingly gave herself up, she did not want to exist any longer a thrall of this twisted soul.”

"Speak for yourself sister, I had to fight mine tooth, nail and horn to get her power, but it tasted so much sweeter. Maybe you should have slapped yours a bit, might make you crack a smile."

Katashiko turns to glare at demonic Sara as their particular patch of reality fades away, leaving Arguile in a slowly shrinking sphere of the wooded area.

* * *

Yanking his fist clear from Arguile’s control crystal Incom stands up on his regenerated legs, rising to his full height as he looks down at the emancipated metallic skeleton with exposed control crystals that used to be the GHAST Arguile. Two of the crystals are dull and cracked while a third glows weakly. The limbs of the ruined GHAST weakly move as it tries to move however without much of it’s mass., in fact all that was left was a shattered rib frame, part of an arm and leg.

His desperate gambit, to sucker Arguile’s soul into a one-on-one fight while the angelic and demon souls within him went into Arguile’s systems, co-oping his own power sources and transferred them and much of the GHAST shell into Incom to repair his own grievous injuries, leaving Arguile with nothing significant to support his systems nor to be a threat to anyone else. Of course both souls had gained the power from Arguile’s souls, which could have consequences later in the future but that would be a battle for another time.

Looking over at the nearby stream Incom spies a stone slab. Walking over he picks it up, turns and places it gently enough to avoid smashing the crystal that held Arguile’s soul yet hard enough to drive the remains of the GHAST form and the crystal into the earth, burying him, trapped within the crystal.

Turning towards Sara Incom runs over and knees close to her. Gently he reaches out and touches the hand on her face.

”Sara, I’m here, how bad is it?”

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7 – Special Autopilot DM


Archpaladin Zousha

(And at last, we finally come to the confrontation I have been looking forward to for over a year. )

As you turn back to face Morganna and challenge her, she remains silent. Indeed, she even bows her head, perhaps in sorrow or perhaps in mere contemplation. Meanwhile, with roars and thunderous footfalls, the paladin guard streams down into the room to fight. And as you turn to flee from this overwhelming force, you hear Morganna’s voice again. As before, it is soft, as if whispered to you by a gust of passing wind, but no less chilling. Although if you glanced back, you would not see her lips move, the order is given all the same.

“Zariel. Kill them.”

Theme Music (Start playing it just as you start reading the next paragraph.)

And then you feel the hackles on the back of your neck rise, even if you can’t pinpoint why. Certainly, you are in a dangerous situation, but this felt different. Almost as if Death itself were now stalking you. Unaware of what you are feeling, Katashiko, Rickster, and Odlak continue on. While Rickster holds the door open for you, Odlak guards the rear, hacking down any paladins who charge forward too eagerly. Once you and Katashiko are through, Rickster begins closing the door, nearly catching Odlak between it and the doorjam. He flashes a grin at his fellow grandmaster, then draws a pair of short blades and wedges them into the door frame, temporarily jamming the door.

“Come on! This way.” Rickster calls, leading the charge over to the secret door nearby, which he likewise jams after closing it behind you. You now seem to be in an endless maze of tunnels, although the two Grandmasters seem to know the way out. Katashiko seems to have recovered her breath by this point and now runs beside you unaided.

You have not gone far, however, before you are stopped by a bloodcurdling shriek coming from the darkness ahead. As your small party stops and readies itself for trouble, the shriek fades, to be replaced with a deep, rumbling laugh.

“The Reaper.” Odlak breathes, staring ahead into the dark tunnel ahead. Rickster shoots a scornful look at his fellow grandmaster, but nonetheless pulls out another pair of daggers to hold at the ready.

“Reaper? Pfft, I fear no reaper!” Katashiko scoffs, cracking her knuckles. “Hey, you up there! Come forward into the light so we can get a good look at you!”

From the shadows ahead, a scuffing sound can be heard. Slowly, a hunched figure shambles into view, obscured by a tattered black cloak. It is difficult to judge exactly how tall the figure is, as it is nearly bent double, clinging desperately to a roughly-crafted scythe in order to remain standing. The figure keeps its head bowed and its robe wrapped around its scythe, obscuring any visible part and on the whole, not appearing very menacing at all. From within the robe, the previously menacing laugh comes again, until it cuts off in a gurgling wheeze.

“Pathetic.” Katashiko spits, leaping forward to the attack at this display of weakness. Lunging forward, Katashiko lands directly in front of the spectre, pirouetting to transfer all of her forward momentum into her leg, which she sweeps up and then down. The blow crashes into the head of the cowled figure, and then continues downward, stomping the tattered cloak flat onto the floor.

“What!?” Katashiko exclaims, but there is no time to ponder this as you all suddenly come under attack.

From the shadows off to your right, a massive shape, an impossibly large shape to have hidden itself in the meager shadows there, bursts forward in a blur towards Odlak. The paladin grandmaster brings his sword around to defend himself, but too late as the creature, all teeth and claws, streaks by, slashing him once, twice, three times, leaving a dozen ragged tears across his chest. Through plate armor, skin, and bone the creature’s claws have cut, and as Odlak’s chest turns red with blood he staggers back against the wall with a weak gasp. His sword tumbles from his grip as he releases it to grasp at his chest, futilely trying to hold his innards in – and then gasps again, this time in shock. As quickly as the wounds appeared, they are gone, leaving Odlak intact and whole once more. From the darkness, the deep rumbling laugh comes again.

“Oh, one of those sorts.” Katashiko snorts dismissively. “Come out right now and fight us, you cow-urk!”

From the shadows behind Katashiko, a delicate loop of wire flashes briefly in the light as it flies through the air. Then it falls down over Katashiko’s head, down to around her neck, and is suddenly pulled brutally tight. The mistress of earth flails as the noose of wire proves impressively resilient, cutting off her air supply as well as sharply digging into the soft flesh of her throat. For the first time since you’ve met her, you see fear in her eyes as the wire is slowly reeled back into the shadows, dragging her back with it. In the end, the only thing that saves her is that the wire finally bites deeply enough into her skin to draw blood. Apparently acidic blood, as a brief puff of smoke wafts up from the delicate loop of wire before it snaps with a soft twang, freeing her. As Katashiko coughs and gasps for air, clutching at her injured throat, the deep rumbling laughter comes a third time.

A moment later, and Rickster quietly finishes the spell he had been conjuring this entire time. Forming a shining ball of light in his hand, he slams it into the floor, and suddenly the entire hallway is illuminated, every shadow banished. All except one, a humanoid shadow standing out starkly against the bright wall. The shadow looks alarmed, throwing its hands up in surprise and turning to run. With a wordless howl of rage, Katashiko leaps forward, delivering a punch that shatters the bricks behind the shadow’s head. It melts away into nothingness, and yet still you hear the deep rumbling laughter. A moment later, and your assailant adds in Katashiko’s own voice, mocking you with the repetition.

“Pathetic.”

From the end of the corridor, where light once again fades into darkness, shadows coalesce. They form into the shape of a man, tall but lithe, and clad in a tattered black robe. This time the cowl has been pulled back, and you can see the man’s face. He is bald, and deathly pale, allowing the black tattoos of interlocking chains criss-crossing his head and neck to stand out sharply. His eyes have crimson red pupils, and his lips are pulled back in a confident smile. As he steps forward, one deliberate step at a time towards you all, he pulls his hands out from beneath his cloak, cradling a wicked-looking dagger in each. He twirls them about, slashing at the air in front of him in a mesmerizing pattern. He stops, both his forward momentum and his display with the daggers, when he is about a dozen steps in front of you. In a single blur of motion, he sheaths the daggers again, leaving his hands empty. And then he raises one hand out and up in front of him, palm up. And then he closes the hand, opens it back up, closes it again. Beckoning to you.

Come on.

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

“A contagion? Interesting . . . what sort of effects were you thinking it would have, exactly? And how were you intending on controlling its spread – I considered such a thing myself once, but it proved too difficult to control with precision. I look forward to seeing the results – talk with Arlan again if you require additional resources . . . or test subjects.”

And then you cut the communication with the Baron, and pondered your options. The Baron’s concerns were legitimate, and creating such a disease would be difficult in the first place. Working with living matter was always such an obnoxious practice, because life had an annoying habit of adapting, mutating, and changing in unexpected ways. That was probably why necromancy was so popular – dead bodies were so pleasantly predictable and malleable by comparison. That was also why you had gone in the direction of demonic merging for your immortality. Working with fiends had its own drawbacks, but at least their immortal natures were consistent – you didn’t have to worry about turning yourself into a tree or some other damn thing.

Still . . . you could do this. You own research into merging fiendish essences into mortals would give you a head start on creating a contagion. It would just take time, and a lot of uninterrupted work. Which, considering how your return to your home had been so far, could not be counted on. But, hopefully, the last of your visitors had finally left.

Checking up on your companions proved to be enlightening. Omega was in some sort of meditated trance, Roger seemed to be sewing up the holes in his appropriated body with a needle and some thread he found somewhere, and Shanks was happily getting sloshed from a large barrel of rum he must have salvaged from the remains of his ship and somehow carried back here.

“Cap’n on deck!” Shanks burped, stumbling up to attention upon seeing you. Your other two associates turned to look at you expectantly.

“Waz the plan now, cap’n?”

(If you would like, we can have an Iron Man-esque montage of Sohssal and company getting his labs back up into order over the next several days, and beginning work on whatever he actually plans to do next.)

A Mountainous Forest

Pwenet

“You . . . bastard.” Arguile wheezes, as his skeletal arm feebly flails at you, trying to grasp your foot. “Come . . . back here . . . finish this!”

Grabbing as large of a stone as you can find, you do come back, although not quite with the intent Arguile expects. The GHAST skeleton’s eyes flicker in disgust as it looks up at you.

“You’re . . . still . . . prisoner scum. Always . . . will be.”

And then you bring the rock down, not with the intent to destroy, but to bury. It takes Arguile a few seconds to catch on, but he does soon enough.

“What are . . . you doing? No! NO NO NO!! Stop! You can’t . . . do this! Finish it! You . . . FINISH IT!! INCOM!!!”

And then you have finished driving him into the soft earth, smoothing the ground out quickly over his tomb, and laying the stone down atop it. With his remaining limbs, and enough time, he might be able to dig himself out. But probably not, which meant short of some overzealous gold prospector, Arguile would be buried until the end of time. Immortality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Running over to Sara, you kneel down protectively over her. At your question, she weakly sobs, and removes her shaking bloodstained hands from the wound. It is self-evident that the wound is very bad. Starting at her jawline, a deep gash runs diagonally up across her left cheek, crossing just under the corner of her eye, and ending at the bridge of her nose. If angled more vertically, it would appear as if she were weeping blood. Through the gash although partially obscured by all the blood, you could see her jaw and cheek bones, as well as the inside of her mouth.

This was an injury that would require medical attention. Although not immediately fatal, you could not simply slap a bandage on this wound and hope it would heal itself as her leg had done. But where were you going to find help at? There was bound to be a village or hunting lodge somewhere nearby, but where? In which direction were you supposed to go? The thought that you could inadvertently move further away from help rather than towards it was deeply troubling. Yet Sara’s injury would only get worse the longer you stood here.

The only other option available to you would be to try to treat it yourself. You had considerable knowledge of human anatomy, and although that was meant to be used to maim and destroy, it had proven useful for healing in the past. This was a much more delicate operation, however, and with the deeper nature of the injury along with its location the threat of infection was far worse. Even if she survived, she could end up looking deformed. At best, it is almost certain that she will have a highly visible scar for the rest of her life, but it could be far worse than that if you bungled it.

No matter what you do, you were going to have to do it fast. It was also likely that Sara would suffer for it no matter what you do. But . . . she trusted you, and the look in her eyes says that she trusts you still. Whatever you decide, she will go along with . . . and probably not blame you for afterwards. If she lives.

The Capital

Lonna

Dressed like a harem slave and feeling more trapped than ever, you signal that you are ready. As professions as he always was save for that warning, Alfred leads you silently down to the ground floor. There you find Duke Volesin waiting for you, dressed as a rich sultan, complete with ornate hat.

“Ah, there you are, looking more beautiful than I thought possible. I hope you will forgive an old man for his admittedly poor sense of humor. And his security for a sense of paranoia.”

He adds, nodding at the mage collar pressing against your throat. The duke gives you a warm smile.

“Although I will admit it does complete the look. I suspect I will be the envy of everyone present – save perhaps the Baron’s son.”

The duke’s smile fades into a frown.

“It is unfortunate that things worked out this way. But, perhaps it is the will of Fate. In any event, after tonight’s pleasantries, we can turn our full attention into ensuring your sister’s future is a bright one.”

And with that, the duke offers you his arm, and escorts you out of the manor. Albert accompanies you outside, opening the carriage’s door for you both, and shutting it once you are both inside. From there another of Duke Volesin’s servants took over, as the coachman deftly cracks the reins to start your journey to the cathedral. As you travel, Volesin goes over the itinerary with you.

“I took the liberty of discussing your presence at the event with the Baron. He was not exactly pleased, but there should be no problems on his end. I also understand you made friends with the bride during your incarceration – I therefore took the liberty of discussing the possibility of making you a bridesmaid. If you would like to serve as such, you may. I understand the Countess doesn’t have any friends attending the wedding, so I’m sure it would do her good to have someone there. Someone to make sure the wedding itself goes smoothly, hmm?”

The duke’s tone is friendly, but the implied threat drips from every word like venom. He prompts no further conversation during the short trip to the cathedral, although his open demeanor suggests he would be receptive to any question. Soon enough, you become aware that you are approaching the cathedral. It is obvious from even a few blocks away, as the carriage passes through several guarded checkpoints, and the air is thick with noise. From up ahead come the sounds of people cheering, and music being played. In the dark sky above, the Gastly Truth hangs ominously, several bright spot lights moving about to illuminate an area ahead. Occasionally a group of the Baron’s mechanical angels fly through a beam, briefly illuminated before passing back into shadow – the Baron was taking his security very seriously.

One block from the cathedral, your path is blocked by an almost solid wall of people – commoners trying vainly to get in to see the wedding - who are being held back by an immobile wall of guards. The crowd slowly parts around the carriage, and several guards break rank to force a passage open for the carriage to travel. Once past this final checkpoint, the carriage enters a large open courtyard. The courtyard itself is empty, save for the marble fountain in the middle, countless guards, and a large band of troubadours playing as loudly as possible.

Bearing the heraldry of Duke Volesin, the carriage is unmolested as it pulls directly up to the steps leading into the cathedral. One of the Baron’s servants steps forward to open the carriage door, and for a moment the two of you share a moment of recognition. This is the same man who had supervised your dressing within the Baron’s manor. He greets you again this time with a lecherous smile and a wink before standing at attention.

Duke Volesin gets out first, and then offers you a hand to help your descent. Then taking you by the arm, he leads you up into the cathedral. The front foyer of the cathedral has been converted this night from a place of meditation into a place of business. More than a dozen small groups of nobles stand at different points in the room, undoubtedly wheedling and weaseling their latest plots into fruition. The music from outside wafts into the room, blending with the soft hubbub of whispered words to create an indecipherable susurration – even for your sharp ears. So, that was what the troubadours were for. You do notice that most of the conversations momentarily cease when you and Volesin enter the room – and all eyes become fixated on you. Then those females present jealously nudge their partners, and the conversation resumes about the room.

Standing of course in the center of all this, off by himself, is the Baron of Gast. The man looks insufferably pleased with himself as he strides over to greet you, as he has likely done with all of the other present nobles and their escorts.

“Hohenhiem. Welcome. I’m so glad you could attend.” The Baron began.

“Demetrius. I’m so glad I was invited.” Volesin replied, and the two shared a brief laugh as they embraced in friendship.

“And who is your friend? Not Mrs. Volesin, certainly.” The Baron remarked as he turned his attention to you.

“Certainly not. No, this beautiful young lady is simply my company for the evening – and my wedding present for the couple to be.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. All newly married couples should have a slave girl to see to their needs, wouldn’t you agree? But this is no ordinary slave girl.”

At this, Volesin firmly grabs your arm and twists it, showing the Baron your half-concealed brand.

“This is Pyrene the Temptress, breaker of hearts and stealer of clothes. And I, Duke Volesin, have brought her here tonight in chains to return her to your custody! She is, after all, a criminal that was sentenced to your Ironheart, was she not?”

“You always did have a flare for the dramatic, Volesin. It’s one of the things I liked about you. But I think in this matter you could have been more circumspect. After all, that poor boy’s father is supposed to be here tonight, and what is he going to think about his son’s murderer being present?”

The Baron said with a deepening frown. Volesin responds with a shrug.

“You could always hand over your reclaimed prisoner, let him decide how to discipline her. Personally, I find re-gifting tacky, but perhaps tying a bow on her head would do the trick.”

“Oh, very cute, old friend. Very clever . . . I’m not sure Cheran will wish to part with her, however. He was so very excited when we learned that she would be in attendance tonight.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I am afraid that Cheran will have to wait for his gift. I have a final matter to settle with the prisoner before I can fully render her into your care – or whoever you nominate in your stead.”

“Oh, really? Heh. Indulging in your taste of strays again? You should be careful – I’ve heard bitches like her are covered in fleas.”

“Then I suppose it is a good thing I had her bathe. Now I’m sure you will be having other guests to greet shortly, and I believe I see Viscount Damont. I wanted to speak with him about a trade initiative before the wedding. If you will excuse us.”

At that, the Baron steps back to allow you entry into the rest of the room. He favors you both with a glare.

“Have care, old friend. Old favors only get you so far in the end.”

Volesin responds with a nod, and then guides you past him. Once far enough away that the music masks the sound, the duke breaks into a chuckle.

“I never could resist tweaking that man’s nose. I am afraid that after this wedding and our brief discussion back at my manor, I will have to turn you over to him as planned. You are still a criminal and I am a duke – I am obligated to hand you over to the proper authorities . . . which is the Baron of Gast. Especially after so public a showing that I have you in my care – I hope you can forgive this old man for that indulgence as well.”

Approaching a group of nobles, the duke nods at a nearby side door.

“I believe if you go through that door, there should be a guard there that can take you to see the bride. That is, of course, if you would like to serve as her bridesmaid. Otherwise, you may remain with me, but I imagine your victim’s parents will be arriving shortly. If you would prefer to meet them instead, I’m sure that could be arranged as well.”

Volesin offers with a slight shrug. Once again, you were trapped in a maze of unpleasant choices. You wondered who would be shot in the head this time if you refused to cooperate. Probably Ariella, your pessimism argues.

Dorizzit

(I believe these likely familiar comic strips ought to illustrate what Korram’s just done. )

From the darkness, the heat comes again as the voice answers your question.

You . . . would be . . . different . . . from the Korram . . . you were. But still . . . the same . . . as a man . . . is different . . . from a boy . . . but still . . . the same person. Just . . . as any . . . growth . . . changes . . . the one . . . experiencing it. You may . . . remain the same . . . after . . . or you may . . . decide . . . to change . . . and embrace . . . your new . . . self. But . . . the choice . . . as always . . . will be yours.

And with the assurance that you would remain the same after the merge, you realize there is only one sensible choice here. You needed the power, just as you needed Calcifer’s power before. At your agreement, the room suddenly grows painfully hot, as if you are standing in the center of a blaze. Diagrams, symbols, and instructions suddenly appear in your mind as the heat vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.

Do . . . as I . . . have shown you.

And with that final communication with Purifier, you set to work. Lacking any paint, you carve the necessary sigils into the floor with a dagger. It is slow work with only one hand, but you do the best you can. It is certainly unfamiliar work, as you are a warrior and a simple farmer before that, not some conjuror. But the information has been seared into your brain, and your hand carves with a will of its own. Finally the work is done, and you sit back, exhausted. Carved into the floor is an intricate series of interlocking thaumaterical circles – and although you knew how to fashion them, you had no idea how exactly they worked.

Now . . . crawl into . . . the center . . . and prick . . . your finger. Blood . . . must . . . seal . . . our pact.

Having come this far already, you do as Purifier instructs, crawling into the middle of all these mad scrawlings and pricking your finger. As soon as the first drop of blood hits the etchings, they all burst into flame, flicks of fire roaring to life along every line, inside of every mark. You should have been burned, would have reflexively jumped back out of the way . . . but you find that you cannot move. You can feel your flesh beginning to blister, peel, crack, and finally ignite as the stench of charred meat strikes your nostrils. You are dimly aware that bands of fiery light have formed on your body, mimicking those on the floor.

You try to scream to give voice to your agony, but find that you cannot. Instead, your ears are filled with the sound of wild, mad laughter – it takes you several seconds to realize that it is you who are laughing. Then, the flames surrounding you explode outward in an all-consuming blaze, and you fall into darkness.

******************************************

It is time for us to awaken.

Groggily, you come to, finding yourself not in the Hells, but perhaps as close an approximation as the inside of your inn room could provide. In the distance, you can hear fearful cries and commanding shouts, demanding bucket lines be formed. Most of your room has already been consumed by the blaze, although fires still smolder here and there, and thick smoke hangs throughout the room. You find that none of this bothers you now, and indeed you can breathe as normally in this hellish furnace as on a cool spring day – perhaps better even. Through the holes that the fire has eaten into the walls, you can see that the rest of the inn is now on fire, and possibly other buildings in this street besides.

The concerns of others aren’t your primary concern right now, as your mind struggles to clear and adapt to the rush of new information it is receiving. You can feel all the various fires nearby, sense them in a more intimate way than touch, some primal sixth sense. At first the sensation is disorienting, but it quickly becomes empowering as you realize that you can command the fires, control them as if they were additional appendages attached to your body. Your body . . .

Remembering the horrifying experience you had just undergone, you look down to find your body as you remember it. Not burned or marked in any way – although you note with considerable alarm that you once again have two hands!

I took the liberty of regenerating our lost limb. Certainly the process can be reversed, or even augmented – we are in as full control of our own body now as the flames surrounding us. You could remake your arm into one of pure flame, or perhaps some sort of obsidian blade. Such changes are radical, however, and may be too disorienting for you to take advantage of at first. We are also still mortal, as only so much can be done with your human body. But if we still walk amongst men, then surely we are a God amongst them!

Raw power washes through your body now, coiling and readying itself for your every command. The experience is euphoric, and you can’t remember a time that you have ever felt this good! Right now, it felt like there was nothing you couldn’t do, a far cry from the desperation you were feeling earlier upon planning the mad assault against the Baron. Tomorrow night, the Baron of Gast will DIE!

I can advise you on whatever you wish our will to be. But for now, I will leave you to explore the capabilities of your new body, and contemplate the possibilities.

Tonight, you had gone to bed with the expectation that you would not survive tomorrow. But now, surrounded by the flames, you are the phoenix, emerging from the ashes. And all who stood against you now would burn!

WhiteKnight777

“Mmm . . . you always did have one plan or another in motion. I suspect that the Baron is almost as good at scheming as you are – in many ways, he is just like you were. I will admit it would be fascinating to see the lengths joint plans between the two of you would go – assuming one of you didn’t inevitably betray the other. Since we are agreeing with the Baron’s demands for now, I can only assume I will be seeing some of that – along with your betrayal contingency plans. So, where are we going to start?”

And Fianna puts her arm in yours, and allows you to lead her out of this place. Out of the darkness of death, and back into the light of life . . . if you really wanted to get that sappily poetic. Fianna was right that the next move of your little game with the Baron was yours. You didn’t have much time to set up your pieces properly, but one day should still be enough time for you to make preparations.

(Feel free to describe how Umber and Fianna spend the remaining day before the wedding. We’ll jump to Umber and Fianna arriving at the wedding next post, unless you have matters that will need to be played out. )

OverWilliam

Throughout your entire confession Melcara remains silent, although her gentle eyes say all that needs to be said. When you break off in the middle, unable to express your anguish further, she simply waits patiently. Taking your hands into hers, she shifts into angel form and wraps one black wing around you protectively, pulling you close. Finally, you are able to continue, and once finished, stand up.

Melcara accepts your offered hand to help her up, once again in human form. At your offer to meet Karami, she nods absent-mindedly, staring down at the stones. As you turn away to knock at the door, she pulls you back around to face her, now looking up into your eyes.

“Tare, wait. I have something I want to say to you.”

Melcara’s gaze remains locked with yours for a moment more, and then shifts away to a point behind you as she sighs.

“The world is a cold, cruel cage of sorrow. But it is not fashioned by the gods, no, it is our own hands that forge the chains that bind us, link by torturous link. Our existence is defined by choices, both ours and those around us. And it is the consequences of those choices that define who we are. But no matter who we are or what we have done, we always have the choice of how we see ourselves.”

Melcara favored you with a smile.

“For example, not so long ago I was caught in the grip of despair. It took the words of a very wise man to make me see that even in that hopeless situation, I could still choose to fight. I could change how I looked at myself and my current situation. And even though that choice changed nothing else, it made all the difference.”

Melcara glanced down and to the side, and sighed again.

“Humans are quite talented at self-deception – perhaps that is why devils enjoy tempting them. They will invent a multitude of reasons to justify terrible deeds, or simply convince themselves that they don’t care about the evil they do. But eventually, inevitably, they will look back on their life of misdeeds and feel regret – often far too late to atone for what they have done. You suffer from the opposite problem.”

Melcara looked back up into your eyes and gave a reassuring smile.

“You have done a terrible thing Tare. But rather than deny responsibility, you immediately did what you could to atone! There is nothing else you can do to correct your mistake, yet you continue to torture yourself with guilt. Your greatest fear, your dark secret – you hang this one terrible mistake over your head like an axe. Your remorse may have been what led you to become the good man you are today – and you *are* good no matter what you think of yourself – but now this regret is doing nothing but making you miserable!”

Melcara pauses a moment, deep in thought, and then she nods as a thought occurs to her.

“Aha. Let me see if I can convince you to look at it another way. You implied that there were others with you when Karami’s parents were killed. Unless you’re going to tell me that you were the sole one responsible – that the robbery and murder was your idea, that you were in the one in charge, and none of it would have happened without you – then what happened to Karami’s parents was tragic but destined to happen. If you hadn’t been there they still would have been murdered, and Karami would still have been sold into slavery. But *because* you were there, Karami was saved from that life and given a new one. You did that, and that was something that you chose to do on your own.”

Melcara reaches up to place a hand lightly on your shoulder.

“And you didn’t steal her adoration. She adores you for who you are, and who you are now is not who you were. Murderers do not care what happens to their victims, or torture themselves with guilt after the deed until it is far too late to atone. You are *not* the same man who murdered her parents, even if it was your hands that did the deed. And I am sure if she is as sweet and good as you claim, then she will forgive you if she learns the truth. It may take her a long while, but she would forgive you eventually because she knows you, and knows you’ve tried to atone. But if you want to spare her that pain, I understand. Just know that you’ve already done everything that can be done, and you are just as responsible for her current happiness as her past sorrow. Stop torturing yourself with guilt Tare - you’re just hurting yourself now.”

Melcara drops her hand off your shoulder with a soft chuckle.

“As if I am one to talk about guilt and atonement. Still, I have had many long millennia to reflect on my own failings. Perhaps when we have the time, I will share those tragic stories with you. But for now, I would like to meet your friend. She seems like a very special girl.”

With Melcara’s lecture over, you turn and rap softly on the door with the knuckles of your right hand. From within the house you can hear the conversation come to a halt, and a male voice call out, “Coming, Coming!”

A few moments later, and there is a scratching from the other side of the door as the person on the other side undoes the various locks holding the door shut. Then the door opens a crack, allowing the warm light from within to spill out across your face. Revealed on the other side of the door is half of a jovial, pudgy face, partially obscured by a thick beard of whiskers running from the man’s hairline down to the point of his chin. The man’s single hazel-colored eye widens in surprise with recognition, and then the door is thrown open to reveal all of the man, leaving the doorway still completely blocked, now by the man’s considerable girth.

“Tare, me lad!” The man rumbles, reaching forward to catch you in a crushing bear hug that proved his bulk wasn’t just from fat. Still trying – quite successfully – to crush the air from your lungs, the man turns his head to call over his shoulder. “Hanna, it’s Tare! He’s back!”

From within the house, an equally warm female voice called back.

“Well then let him in, Jonas! He’s probably cold and hungry!”

Jonas released his grip on you and stepped back to allow you entry into the house. It’s only then that he even notices Melcara, prompting him to stop and call back again.

“And he’s brought a friend with him!”

“Any friend of Tare’s is welcome too! The more the merrier!”

And with that matter settled, you and Melcara step forward into the small confines of the house’s entryway. While Jonas sets to locking the door again, you step towards the brightly lit dining room. There is a fire blazing merrily in the fireplace, and a large iron pot containing some sort of delicious-smelling stew is still bubbling over it. You’ve only gotten perhaps one step into the room before you are assaulted again, as Karami leaps up from her chair to give you a hug to match the one Jonas just gave you, although not quite as crushing – but not from lack of effort.

“Tare! Oh, Tare I missed you so muchandwherehaveyoubeenIwassoworried!” Karami gasped, her words beginning to run together in her excitement. Carefully stepping around the two of you, Melcara enters the room, sheepishly waving hello to the plumb woman still seated at the table.

“So, you must be Tare’s friend.” Hanna said with more than a note of curiosity in her voice. Melcara smiled nervously, reaching up to twirl a lock of her hair.

“Er, yes. I’m Mel . . . uh, just Mel, heh heh.”

“Pleased to meet you Mel. Have you known Tare very long? He doesn’t talk about his friends much.”

“Oh, ah, we met only recently, actually. But Tare wanted me to meet you, so . . . here I am!”

“Hmph. Well then, maybe you can tell us what Tare was thinking, running off without word like that! We were all worried sick about him!”

At this point, Melcara shoots you a helpless glance. Both of you are saved from having to answer that question by Jonas’s return.

“Hanna, they just got here. Come on, sit down, all of you. I’m sure after he’s got some of your fine lamb stew in him, Tare will tell us all about his adventures.”

Jonas commanded, coming up behind you and Karami and shooing you both towards the table. Karami reluctantly let go of you and returned to her seat at the table, looking at you intently, as if you may disappear again any second. As you and Melcara walk over to the table, she leans in close to you.

“I haven’t dined with humans in a long time. So if there’s some ritual and custom . . .” She whispers urgently into your ear, before you reach the table and are forced to split up. You sit down next to Karami, while Melcara takes the last empty chair directly across from you. Jonas walks over to the fireplace, scooping out two fresh bowls of stew, which he sets down in front of you and Melcara before taking his seat across from Karami. Stew wasn’t the only thing on the menu, however. There was half a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and as the centerpiece, a bowl of fresh apples.

“Business has been good lately!” Jonas announced proudly. “And I owe it all to this girl!” He said, reaching one massive paw across the table to ruffle Karami’s hair playfully.

“Who would have thought painting designs on all my leatherworking would actually make them so sought after!?”

Throughout the dinner, Melcara follows your actions closely. She only samples all of the food, although she is quick to compliment the cooking, and make excuses that she is not very hungry. As the dinner winds down and the questioning begins to pick up, motion outside of the window catches your eye. Looking up at the window, you see through the narrow crack of the blinds someone peering into the house. It takes you only a moment to realize that it is Brock! Seeing that he has caught you eye, the thief leader makes a beckoning motion, and then disappears out of sight of the window.

Gorgondantess

(I love the running fish joke. :smallbiggirn: )

“That was why I gave my weapons to your associate. It may have been foolhardy had you proven hostile, but I hold no illusions about besting you in single combat. Nonetheless, I will accede to your demand.”

And with that, the man began to strip. You meanwhile went outside to collect Maurice. She looked at you, a question in her eyes, but followed. Her confusion only increased when she saw the naked man, but again she remained silent as she took a seat. For his part, the man did not appear embarrassed, but was curious at Maurice’s presence.

“I would have preferred to talk to you alone. My organization is a secretive one, and does not discuss its business with outsiders. I figured being the Archdemon, those restrictions could be waved, but I am hesitant to speak in front of others.”

The man pauses a moment, and seeing he wasn’t going to get anywhere, shrugs. He takes a seat across from you and clasps his hands over his groin.

“Very well, I am already dead. They can hardly kill me more than once for breaking my vows.”

Now unclothed, you notice that the man is still a youth, his body having the suppleness and firmness expected for a human just reaching maturity. However, his body is covered with an impressive array of scars, which is not expected for a young human.

“So, as I said, I belong to the Dusk Wardens, an organization that has tasked itself with protecting the world from the threat of “your” kind since time immemorial. My society has waited in breathless vigilance for over ten generations since the last Archdemon was slain. You can imagine the excitement that occurred when our oracles – specially trained and gifted individuals who are attuned to the world itself – discovered your existence recently. And, of course, the consternation you have caused when you proved yourself to be nothing like the stories.”

The man smiles and shakes his head.

“You displayed some of the same powers – the ability to create objects, to alter your form – as was told in the stories. The oracles also say that you are an Archdemon, and the oracles word is irrefutable in my people’s eyes. Most believe you should be hunted down and destroyed like all the other Archdemons, but enough are concerned at your behavior to watch and wait. You are not some mindless beast rampaging across the countryside, and attracting a number of similarly-minded demons to your side, and this concerns them. They feel threatened by what else you might do differently, as am I – but I am not here for their sake.”

The man sighs and shrugs.

“As for what exactly an Archdemon is, no one knows with absolute certainty, because no one was alive when the last was slain. As such, all we have to go off of are the stories. The foundation of our society, which are rigidly passed down through the generations and are able to be recited by anyone by the time they turn ten. Stripping all the poetic language out of it, as I imagine you don’t want to be here all day listening to it, the Archdemon is the spawn of a god. Azguloth the Destroyer, Forger of Oblivion, blah blah blah, the antithesis of Miriam and Athelion. During a conflict with Miriam, it is said that Azguloth was wounded, and great drops of his blood fell to the ground. From these drops of blood came the first demons and devils. My people, however, believe that some of the blood congealed, that it became concentrated, and from that arose the Archdemons.”

The man lifts one hand to wave it around, briefly exposing himself.

“These Archdemons held all the powers of their progenitor, essentially being miniature gods, as wicked and vile as He was. But for all their power, these creatures were strangely mortal. Perhaps there was some sort of falling out between Azguloth and these particular spawn, or perhaps even He felt threatened by Them. Whatever the reason, unlike normal devils and demons, when slain the Archdemons simply perished, rather than Their souls returning to the Hells.”

The man sits back and sighs.

“So, unable to return home to the Hells with their master, the Archdemons sought to make a home on the mortal plane. Despite their mortality, they were quite powerful, and reigned over the mortal world for quite some time. But eventually, humanity banded together, and the Dusk Wardens were formed. In time, it was discovered how to kill the Archdemons, and the first Dusk Wardens assassinated dozens of them within their own fortresses. The remainder scattered, going into hiding and plotting their revenge. The rest of humanity forgot about them, once again lulling into a false sense of superiority. But the Dusk Wardens never forgot, and continued to hunt their enemy down through the ages to this day. The occasional discovery of an Archdemon only hardened their resolve, and to this day they remain in eternal vigilance. Can you imagine? An entire society, geared towards fighting an enemy that is only encountered once every dozen generations! Madness.”

The man shakes his head, and regards you carefully.

“Now, I have answered your two questions I believe. Per our agreement, that means I may now ask two of you. First, where did you come from? Even our oracles were surprised when you just suddenly appeared in their conscious dreams. Second, what is all this about?”

The man gestures at the church around him.

“A few of the Archdemons were said to be of a slightly more constructive than destructive bent, forging great fortresses to hide within. But this seems different somehow. You could be creating an army I suppose, but it seems more like you are trying to start a new religion – and yet yourself up as a new god. Why?”

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

Isera was stung by her father's words. They hurt in a way she did not expect. She had known old things would come up- that the pains she had buried or she thought were burned would come back.

But not like this.


"I KNOW I made a mistake. I spent a YEAR of my life suffering in the cold, or starving, and having to take care of myself because of it. I ruined any chance of following in our family's tradition by doing that! And you don't think that hurt? That it was easy? That I'm so stupid that I haven't learned that?"

But she hadn't known all of this about the incident too. Of course at the time she had hoped and believed sincerely that her father would protect her, and that the Canticles would understand. But that had been shattered with the exile and suspension.

"No one ever told me."
She said softly. Soft at first, but she was trying to control her voice.
"No one ever said what happened on the other side of that door.
No one ever told me that you actually did anything.

You never told me you cared after that! I thought you had abandoned me like the rest of them. That I hadn't lived up to your soaring expectations, and that was the only chance I had! I thought that was the way it was with you, father. One chance, and I screwed up and that was finished. Most fathers tell their daughters they love them, even when they make a mistake.

Why didn't you ever tell me? Why did it take all of this to finally..."

She was accusing him again? Even after he revealed all that he had done for her? These were words of emotions that Isera had long buried. She was ashamed, and angry, and stressed, and vulnerable, all in a way she had not been since...Well, before that fateful night.

Was it because she had been in this young form for so long? Or was it just because of the emotions of this evening?

That didn't matter at the moment. Isera made her hands into fists. There was no way to hug the image in front of her. No feeling of security or warmth, or anything. It was just an image. She wanted desperately to break through something. The wall that was between them.

"Look. I'm sorry. Ok? I'm sorry for not being perfect. I'm sorry I made mistakes and have been living blind for so long." She pointed at her eye.
"I'm sorry this eye couldn't show me what I should have seen for so long.
I love you father. I wish..." She paused, trying to control her emotions.
"I wish that the past could be changed. I wish we had a chance to just do it over again. But I know we don't, so I want to make the best of our time now."

She said. Isera took a deep breath.

"The reason it is important about your request to summon a demon, father, is that Carlain and Cerise's mother is suffering the same symptoms as mom did, and likely will die too. And the cabal was using this information and your request as a lure to try to convert Carlain in- to convince him they could help him save his mother.

And you know how teenagers and ancient forbidden rituals are, father." She paused. "No, Carlain hasn't done that- but there was temptation."

She wasn't going to say what Carlain had done...Not yet. Not here.

"It does mean this cabal has access to secret files and official documents. I don't know who might have access to those things- but you do, father. That's a starting point to try and find who the spies are.

Right now I have to look after Carlain. I'm also worried about Cerise and her family, but I hope that you can do something about them. I still have to continue this investigation too- there was the Perist residence incident, the fae meeting, the spiritual barrier breaking, and cults working everywhere- and far better organized than normal."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I don't believe it's coincidence. I have to try and figure out how these all connect together. Cut off the snake's head." She said.

[Gorgondantess]

“That was why I gave my weapons to your associate. It may have been foolhardy had you proven hostile, but I hold no illusions about besting you in single combat. Nonetheless, I will accede to your demand.”

And with that, the man began to strip. You meanwhile went outside to collect Maurice. She looked at you, a question in her eyes, but followed. Her confusion only increased when she saw the naked man, but again she remained silent as she took a seat. For his part, the man did not appear embarrassed, but was curious at Maurice’s presence.

"If you would prefer to cover yourself now, that is fine. I simply wanted to ensure that this was not some ill-conceived assassination attempt."
She knew of human's laws of modesty, though didn't understand it much. She herself didn't bother with such trifles (just more human nonsense), and indeed it showed. All she wore was a large cloak, and while it served its purposes, it could indeed frequently show what's underneath, especially during strenuous activity. Of course, "what's underneath" wasn't much, as she only kept the vague outline of a human, sans any actual sexual or waste organs.

“I would have preferred to talk to you alone. My organization is a secretive one, and does not discuss its business with outsiders. I figured being the Archdemon, those restrictions could be waived, but I am hesitant to speak in front of others.”

The man pauses a moment, and seeing he wasn’t going to get anywhere, shrugs. He takes a seat across from you and clasps his hands over his groin.

“Very well, I am already dead. They can hardly kill me more than once for breaking my vows.”

"Would it help to loosen your tongue knowing this one is an angel? Your sorts profess a religious bent, as far as I'm aware. Beyond that, she's..." Mine?
"With me. If you can tell anything to me, then she can very well listen in."

"First, where did you come from? Even our oracles were surprised when you just suddenly appeared in their conscious dreams. Second, what is all this about?”

The man gestures at the church around him.

“A few of the Archdemons were said to be of a slightly more constructive than destructive bent, forging great fortresses to hide within. But this seems different somehow. You could be creating an army I suppose, but it seems more like you are trying to start a new religion – and yet yourself up as a new god. Why?”

She ponders a moment. "...I believe my reply to your first question will be quite curt, but the second will reveal much to you. So, in this game of ours, it should all even out.
Where did I come from, you ask? All I will say is that my conception- that is, the conception of my current state of being- and not this form, but this... spirit, the creature that I am, if you will, in all its totality and all its forms- was quite earthly."
"Now, this second question... will require some backstory.
You say that enough are concerned at my behavior to watch and wait. I disagree. At least, some were not. I was attacked by your kind not long ago, and all this- all you see before me- all the "evils" and killings I have done- are a direct result of that. You see, as they were assaulting me, I heard one phrase- "For Athelion the Lifebringer". So it has been my goal to debase this Athelion the Lifebringer since then. A somewhat shortsighted goal, I understand now, but my goal nonetheless.
And as I could not simply go straight to him, I decided to take from him his worshipers, and force his hand. I care not what you humans think of me, of your servitude. In fact, I'd rather be without it altogether. It is the blow to Athelion that concerns me.
So then. This Archdemon you speak of, that is the antithesis and enemy of Athelion? Look on your creation, and be proud, as I have become just that! A perfect enemy for your conflict!"
She gets up to gesticulate violently as she speaks, but then sits down, sullen. "Of course, I speak facetiously. Unlike your previous Archdemons, I do not desire dominion over men, but dominion over my own life. And that being threatened, I have naturally fought back. Unlike your previous Archdemons, I am not a wholly malevolent creature. Simply reactionary. Any actions aside from this quest of mine, for the most part, have been quite benign and apart from both gods and men."
"...Now. I believe it is my turn to ask questions. These are... of a more concrete, factual nature.
Firstly, those stone daggers. Where do you acquire them? Is it a special stone that you use? How are they enchanted? Are they rare, difficult to create? I will, of course, consider this one question. To put it simply, I want to know more about your weapon of choice.
Secondly. I heard, from these assailants of mine, the term 'Athelion the Lifebringer'. However, everywhere else it seems to be 'Athelion the Lightbringer'. Why is that?
And, a third question, considering the simplicity of the ones before it: who governs your organization? Truly. Is it really Athelion who caused my assault... or is it a more earthly body? Is there any actual sign that you even have the acceptance of this god?"

[Lonna]

Pyrene

Seeing Duke Volesin's outfit mollified Pyrene only very slightly, but she returned his pleasantries with her best professional smile and a demure assurance that, under the circumstances, she understood entirely. When he mentioned the possibility of serving as Countess Amelia's bridesmaid a short while later, however, her smile became a bit more genuine.

"Yes, I think I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with Amelia again. I'm afraid I was not entirely in my right mind when last we met. An unfortunate side-effect, you understand, of incurring her fiance's wrath." Pyrene's tone was wry, though her expression remained pleasant. "If I may be so bold, what is your own opinion of this marriage? If it makes any difference you may be sure that I will hold whatever you say in confidence - and it is not as if I will have much opportunity to spread rumors in any case."

Curiousity indulged, Pyrene spent the rest of the trip in polite silence, mentally preparing herself for the ordeal to come. Her focus was successfully put to the test, with the appearance of her former (warden? supervisor?), and nearly shattered a moment later by the dialogue between Duke Volesin and the Baron of Gast. She was to be a wedding present for Cheran? That was news to her! Was this a betrayal, was Volesin going to hand her over without ever allowing her to see her sister?

And then suddenly the conversation was ending, the Duke smoothly pulling back the metaphorical bait, and it became clear that this was just another of the endless games and maneuvering for which noble courts were infamous. Volesin's admission, a moment later, that he had enjoyed the exchange prompted a long sigh as Pyrene released the tension that had suddenly appeared during the conversation.

Ignoring the mirade voices in the back of her, most of whom were expressing outrage and demanding that she rip off the mage collar and blast her way out, Pyrene murmured that she would see about serving as bridesmaid, and slipped toward the side door.

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

He glares at the assassin as his skin hardens to granite once again.

"You. You dare to strike at my charge. A woman whose life and safety was entrusted to me to guard with my life. That cannot, that WILL not stand. You want a fight, then face me!"

He lifts Justice and charges, the rumbling roar of a giant-blooded rising from his lips. Let him try to use that wire on him. It'd only snap on his stony neck.

[The_Snark]

Mar

Mar felt a spark of annoyance. She wasn't making Firkas show her anything, and she didn't really care about his stupid hideout. If he wanted her gone so badly, he only had to say the word and she'd leave, though what she really wanted to do was just lie down for a while. But it seemed he wasn't saying what he really meant, because instead of telling her to leave he kept coming closer.

She realized what he was about to do a moment before he did it, but she was still kneeling in the snow and couldn't move away in time. He reached out and caught her shoulder; she jerked away and his hand slid down her chest instead of pulling off her cloak. Mar tried to stand up, but he was already very close and she nearly fell backwards and he was still trying to grab her. Before she quite knew what was happening he'd gotten ahold of her arm. It all happened so quickly; she wasn't sure what he was doing, but it made her feel trapped and she wanted to run, so as he started to drag her cloak off she tried to push him away—he still had hold of her arm, and on instinct she lashed out with a wing—there was an awful crack, and someone yelled—

Freedom, sudden and unexpected.

It took her a few seconds to realize what she was seeing: Firkas sitting on the ground, with his arm twisted at an awkward angle (were arms supposed to bend like that? She didn't think so) and her cloak ripped and askew over her wings. She'd knocked him down. He was gaping at her.

It was an accident, she thought frantically. She hadn't meant to. Was he hurt? (Part of her was a little surprised he wasn't screaming; that part of her remembered what having an arm broken felt like. Maybe he was still figuring out what had happened, like her.)

If he wasn't hurt he was going to be angry. Mar turned and ran, no long caring whether her cloak fluttered open behind her; it was easier to run with her wings free than folded tight against her back. Her flight a fews minutes earlier had left a red-tinged trail in the snow, and she followed it. he wouldn't go all the way back to the seer's tent, of course. Only far enough that she could see the town. From there she could find her way back to Jacob's house.

Firkas had seen her wings, Mar realized as she ran. He could tell people. But she didn't know what she could do about that.

She ran, but she was no longer sure that this was something she could run away from.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

When the Baron mentioned test subjects, Sohssal immediately remembered the merfolk he still had contained. He reasoned they probably wouldn't be ideal subjects, as they seemed quite different from humans and wouldn't be a primary target anyway. It would probably be more productive to release them as a gesture of good faith to Gilgaem than to keep them. Sohssal would probably just dump them back into the sea once he had a few free moments.

For now, Sohssal returned to his associates. Seeing his companions again, his mind immediately flooded with worries. There was no way he could continue to work with them without revealing that he was going to ally with the Baron. But there were more important things to worry about, like the lab he would need either way.

”We've got some important work to do. It's time to get this lab running again. But it looks like you guys are...preoccupied. Well, come find me when everyone's ready to work. I'll get started on draining the flooded areas,” he told them.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

He hated being late. But he almost was. Still, they'd done well, considering he'd only had a day to get ready for such a momentous event.

As Fianna had pointed out, Umber had number of contingencies to arrange. Some of these had involved contacting old... friends on various sides of the Veil. He'd even sent a couple of messages off to Gilgeam and Marialta, on the off-chance they were somehow alive. The other Lords of Blood... well, they were either with him, or else compromised, or suspected of being so. The message had been simple - a spare explanation of the events of the past few months and his suspicions regarding what was happening - namely, that Fate was repeating herself, and that their reincarnations - spritiually speaking - were at the heart of the matter.

After that, it was mostly a lot of sending messages. He had to move some money from his ancient caches - rather an alarming amount - but in the end, he got done what he needed to get done.

And hey, he and Fianna looked good.

He was in black, of course - a black silk tuxedo of a slightly archaic style, but of a cut that made him look broader, more muscular. He walked with a confident predatory swagger, as always, with his arm wrapped around Fianna's waist. She wore a low-cut green number that clung deliciously to her curves, and it made him remember... He sighed as they approached the wedding. "You never told me, you know - do you think we should take the Baron's offer, love?"

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Baerdog7 – Special Autopilot DM

Archpaladin Zousha

At your challenge, your assailant waves his hands – and his blades disappear. Which leaves his hands free to slap against the sides of his face, while he opens his mouth into an “O” of dismay.

Oh no!

As you charge forward, the man holds his ground until you reach him. Then, moving with incredible speed, he begins dancing backward, narrowly leaping back in time to avoid your first swing. Moving with impossible speed, always moving, twisting and turning, he deftly avoided your next several swings in much the same way. But finally, your blade caught him, tearing through his chest – and finding no resistance there. As the illusionary man blinks out of existence, you already know what is coming and whirl about to defend yourself.

You manage to raise your sword just in time to catch the two daggers as they descend. A foot beyond the locked blades is the face of your assailant, a bemused smile on his face. This time he is real, the feel of his twin knives solid against the edge of your sword. And he is strong – ungodly strong, almost equal to the angels you had fought in physical might. But thanks to your giant blood, you are just a hair stronger, and so inch by inch his daggers are forced upward, away from your face. Just before you have forced him back completely, your assailant delivers two sweeping kicks up to your side. Thanks to your armor and rocky skin, the blows are heard more than felt, echoing off your armor with loud booms. The assassin frowns at this, clearly disappointed.

Then he disengages his blades from yours, spinning away from you. Whatever he was going to do next is interrupted as Katashiko shoulder charges into him from the side, throwing him into the wall. As he rebounds off the wall he pirouettes, narrowly dodging Katashiko’s kick that shatters the section of wall he just left. He responds by plunging one of his daggers down into her extended knee, causing her to scream in pain even as her blood rapidly dissolved the dagger now lodged there. Twirling away, he delivers a spinning kick to Katashiko’s head that sends her tumbling into you. With his remaining dagger your assailant salutes you and then points at his eye, points at the two Grandmasters, and winks.

Watch this.

Rushing towards the two Grandmasters as they in turn rush at him with a battlecry, the assassin throws his remaining knife into the air. He then tumbles past Odlak, narrowly rolling underneath his blade, and erupts out of his summersalt at Rickster, feet first. The impact sends Rickster crashing back into the nearby wall, while the assassin recoils back towards Odlak. The assassin tucks back into a roll again, returning to where he started just in time to catch the dagger. He parries Odlak’s next swing, then strikes the elbow of Odlak’s sword arm with his free hand, knocking the arm and associated weapon out and away. He begins another deadly pirouette, his knife flashing up to slice open the left side of Odlak’s face in passing. Then with his back to Odlak and once again facing Rickster, the assassin throws his knife, expertly striking Rickster in the shoulder. The blade manages to penetrate the shoulder joint in his armor, and he falls back against the wall with a curse. Reeling from the facial wound but recovering, Odlak delivers another powerful swing at your assailant. With his back to Odlak, the assassin couldn’t possibly have seen the blow coming, but he nonetheless manages to duck under the path of the blade yet again. As he comes back up, the assassin throws an elbow back into Odlak’s throat, causing him to gasp painfully. Then the assassin twirls around again, pirouetting to behind Odlak. As he goes, he reaches up, grabbing the Grandmaster by the head, and twisting. Odlak’s neck snaps with a wet crack as the assassin spins around him, and then spins the Grandmaster around him in turn. Completing one full circle around each other, the assassin pitches Odlak down onto the floor, and he collapses into an armored heap, quite dead. The assassin throws his arms up, and then delivers a low bow towards you.

Ta-Da!

Stonefall

The_Snark

Firkas, too shocked by the sight of your wings and his own injury, didn’t really protest as you left. Once you got a short distance away, he finally started screaming in pain, his brain finally acknowledging that yes, a broken arm hurt. Fortunately there was still a layer of snow on the ground, and so after having a moment to think on how to find your way back to town, you realized you could follow your own red-tinged footprints back. You had no intention of ever returning to the seer’s tent however, just retracing your steps far enough back that you could return to Jacob’s house. Home.

Some time later, you find yourself standing in front of Jacob’s modest cabin. Jacob comes out to greet you, perhaps seeing your approach from a window. He looks rather concerned, and grows even more so upon seeing your disheveled state.

“Marion! What happened!? William came in to say that you had run off into the woods! And then before I could get an explanation out of him, he ran off! Something which should have been impossible with his broken leg . . .”

Jacbo observed, a note of wonder entering his voice as he finally realized this impossibility. There was also a note of anger in his voice again, but the majority of his voice was full of fear.

“I was just about to go out looking for both of you!”

“No need.” A voice called out from behind you, and as you turned you saw Julian and William trudged up the path. Julian spared a quick concerned glance at you, and then focused his attention on Jacob.

“William was concerned about Mar –“

“Marion.” William corrected immediately.

“Er, yes. He wanted us to start searching the whole forest immediately, but I told him you were probably worried about him by now. I was going to escort him back here and then go looking for Mar by myself, but I see that is not necessary.”

“Marion.” William corrected with an angry mutter, while Jacob sized Julian up.

“And you are, young man?”

“Julian, sir. Squire of Sir – well former squire of –“

“Thank you for your assistance, Squire Julian. Now if you’ll excuse us, I would like to talk with my family. Privately.” Jacob adds, his eyes narrowing in angry suspicion. William glumly kicked at the patch of snow in front of him, and then trudged forward to his father. Clearly he knew what “private conversation” meant. At this point Caroline peeked out of the cabin, smiling and coming all the way out upon seeing you.

“Marion!”

“Caroline, go back into the house!” Jacob yelled, not looking back, and causing the young girl to scamper quickly back inside the house. Although that did not stop her from continuing to peek out from the doorway. Julian took this as his cue to leave, and he turned to go, stopping to look at you one last time.

“I still need to see you Mar. I’ll be in town at the inn.”

And with that he turns to go, starting to walk down the path that would take him in to town. Leaving you alone with William to face Jacob’s fury.

“You went to see that seer, didn’t you?” Jacob said, his voice low with a dangerous note.

“Yes, but look! My leg, it’s healed!” William exclaims, lifting up his pant leg to reveal the whole flesh. At this Jacob’s brow furrows in surprise, and more than a little concern.

“Are you sure this isn’t a trick?”

“No Father, it hurt. It hurt a lot at the time, but now my leg feels fine! Better than fine, in fact.” William says, demonstrating by hopping around solely on his formerly broken leg. Jacob simply gives a “hrm”.

“And what did she want for this miracle?” He asked cautiously.

“Nothing! She didn’t want anything!”

“Nothing? She didn’t want anything for healing you? Not even a favor or promise?” Jacob said, his voice growing increasingly suspicious. William’s enthusiasm turned sheepish when he remembered what Seer Maya *did* ask for.

“Well . . . she did want to read Marion’s fortune.”

“What?”

Jacob asked, now thoroughly confused.

“Well . . . what did she do?”

He pressed, glancing over at you for confirmation.

“Well, she pulled out a big stack of cards, and started flipping them over! But then . . . then . . . Marion got scared and she ran out! And that’s when I got worried and said we had to go look for her!”

“She did?’ Jacob asked, turning to look at you.

“Why did you run out like that?”

The Tower . . . The Spy . . . The Pyre . . . your Doom approaches!

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

It was a lot of hard work to get your lab back into operation, but over the course of the next week you managed. Your only occasionally useful companions proved to be quite helpful in this matter, often in unexpected ways. Omega seemed to be more of her old self, using her telekinetic powers to shift large amounts of debris at one time. Roger was able to possess some of the material as well, causing it to move of its own accord. With his inability to die being a ghost, he was also able to explore the rents in your home to help figure out the best way of patching them. Even Shanks, despite being a mortal man – er, pirate – had his uses, being quite familiar with construction where the sea flooding in is a concern.

With your past knowledge of how to set up the magical coils, you even didn’t take that long to rebuild them. All that remained was finding a suitable energy source for them to drain – demons and elementals had worked well in the past. But it was clear that the binding magics were capable of failing if unmaintained for any significant period of time. You hadn’t quite yet figured out how to improve those bindings without draining a disappointing amount of energy from the imprisoned creatures themselves. Still, now that you knew it was a problem you could probably solve it in a matter of days if you focused your efforts on perfecting the magic. Then again, the bindings had never been a problem before your incarceration in Ironheart, and you doubted you would be caught in such a way again. You just wouldn’t let it happen.

You are down in one of your side labs pondering what to put into the coils when Roger comes in, in ghost form. He had been using the woman’s body much less now that it had started to decompose.

So, making plans for world domination Sohssal? You’ve got your home back, everything’s about to be running in tip-top shape again, and so far no one else has shown up to try to kill all of us. I think now would be a good time for you to keep your promise to me, and get me my old body back. Being a ghost is fun and all, but it’s starting to get a little old. You can only scare Shanks by popping out of a wall and yelling “Boo”, after all.

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

Your father is silent throughout your anguished tirade. When you pause to take a deep steadying breath, he finally speaks, in a voice thick with emotion.

“You are my daughter. There is nothing in this world I cherish more.”

Here Jean reached up to rub his eyes, although whether to relieve stress or to scrub away tears you are uncertain.

“But . . . I’m not good at all this lovey dovey stuff. Heh, one of the greatest thaumatergists in recent memory, but terrible with people. That was your mother’s gift – I’m sure your life would have gone much differently if she had survived.”

Lowering his hand away from his face, Jean clenches it into a fist.

“I should have never kept you at arm’s length. I wanted you to choose your own path in life, and I didn’t want anyone to think I was encouraging your risky behavior. Heh. You ended up following in the family tradition better than you know – at least recent family tradition. Next time you’re in the Archives, look up “The Hellrazers”. I think you’ll find it an interesting read.”

At your news regarding Carlain and the recovered secret documents, Jean went pale.

“You mustn’t let him summon a demon to make a cure! It won’t end well.”

Your father pressed, with an odd note of urgency attached to it. He becomes slightly more relieved when you lie, saying that Carlain has done no such thing. The pallor to his skin remains, however.

“Isera . . . I know you’re not going to like this, but come home. It’s getting much too dangerous, and your investigation is going to make you a target if it hasn’t already. I should never have sent you on this assignment, but I didn’t know there were traitors within the Canticles. Highly placed traitors at that, because documents like my petition are sealed within the Archives – Cynthia wouldn’t have access to something like that.”

Your father frowns, pausing a moment, and then presses on.

“This isn’t something you should be doing alone, not anymore. Especially with Carlain compromised, along with an unknown number of Canticle members. Come back home, and we can work on cleaning house first. I imagine when news of this spreads, we’re going to end up with a full blown Witch Hunt. Your help here in tracking down the traitors within our ranks would be invaluable . . . and honestly, it would keep people from suspecting you as one of them. Yes, I know that sounds insane, but so does the idea that warlocks have infiltrated the Canticles. No one will trust anyone else, and paranoia will reign for a long time. If we don’t pursue this aggressively, and bring it to an end just as quickly, something like this could tear the Canticles apart.”

Jean sighs and favors you with a sad smile.

“But you’re my daughter, and I know you’ve caught the scent of whoever is behind all this. If you feel you can investigate this back to its source better out there, I can’t stop you. Just . . . be careful. I’d . . . really like to have a long talk with you after all this is over.”

And after finishing up any remaining business and saying your goodbyes, your father closes the connection, leaving you alone again. Alone in the cold dark woods . . . seems like you’d just have to find your way back out of them again, physically and metaphorically.

(Don’t know if you wanted to keep talking with Dear Old Dad some more or not. We can certainly go back and play them out if you had other things you wanted to discuss with Jean.)

The Capital

Lonna

At your mention of incurring Cheran’s wrath, the Duke chuckled.

“Did you now? I am surprised that you came out of it with all of your limbs intact – Cheran tends to be rather . . . ah, direct in his expressions of displeasure. Or so I’ve heard – the boy has caused his father no end of headaches. One could say this marriage is an attempt to get him to settle down, but I suspect it’s more a marriage of convenience. Once married, control of the Ashargrin County will be placed into Cheran’s hands. That will let him dictate policy for the County and vote as its representative during any official meetings of the nobility. Of course, I’m sure those decisions will be whatever the Baron of Gast says, as Cheran doesn’t seem the sort to be able to run *anything* effectively. I suppose I should be more concerned that I will conveniently die one day, leaving control of my duchy in Seraphim’s hands through his marriage to my daughter Rose. But, I suppose the Baron knows he will have my support on important matters regardless of the distance normally between us. And, perhaps he fears the consequences that would be unleashed in the event of my untimely death. There was also the issue that one of my sons could inherit control instead of Rose, but you took care of that nicely for him.”

The duke concluded with a gloomy frown thrown your way. But just as quickly, he replaces it with a (forced) smile.

“Well, enough talk of politics. This night is meant to be a happy occasion, regardless of the reasons for it coming about.”

And you rode the rest of the way to the cathedral in uncomfortable silence. Once at the cathedral and past the tense meeting with the Baron, you excuse yourself and head over to the side door. You are just opening the door to step through when a loud commotion reaches your ears from the foyer’s entrance. You don’t hear much of it, but do hear the name – “Count William Silancio and his wife Natalia.” You recognize the name Silancio – it was the same last name as the noble you had killed in self-defense. Evidentially you had gotten away just in time.

Beyond the door was a long richly furnished corridor – evidentially a passage to grant access to the back half of the cathedral without passing through the worship area. Three guards stood immediately beyond the door, although the one hanging back behind the other two seemed . . . different, somehow. Despite wearing the same uniform and armor as his fellows, this one had a different air about him, something that made you instinctively wary around him. The two more “normal” guards step forward to block your path, saying that this route was closed to visitors and would you please return to the foyer. The third guard steps forward at this point, shooting a disdainful look at his fellows.

“Wait. This is Pyrene, the Countess’s bridesmaid. Let her through.”

Evidentially, your description had already been passed on to at least these special guards. Like chastised puppies, the two guards stepped back to allow you entry into the hallway. As you stepped forward, the door swung shut behind you and the third guard stepped forward to clamp a hand around your arm.

“I assume you’re here to see the Countess. This way . . . please.”

Continuing to hold your arm in a steely grip that left no question as to who was in charge, the guard led you down the corridor. You passed through several more doors and groups of guards at a rapid pace. You noted that here in the back of the cathedral, the guards were far more heavier, as they no longer needed to be circumspect in regards to their presence. In all cases, however, they parted to let the two of you through without question – your escort silenced all such questioned before they could be voiced with an angry glare.

Finally you arrive in front of the door with a pair of guards, similar in manner as well as appearance to your escort. The three of them share a nod, and then your escort opens the door and non-too-gently pushes you inside.

“I’ll be right outside.” He says, as if it were some sort of warning or threat, and then closes the door behind you. You are now in a brightly-lit room, sparsely furnished but what few chairs are present in the room look quite comfortable. A large wooden desk dominates the back half of the room, with a large silver mirror hanging just above it. This seems to have been a meeting room or perhaps an office, but now it has been converted into a hive of activity. A handful of people in similarly cut high-quality clothing flit about the room, making frequent trips back to the desk to pick up or deposit one type of makeup or another. In the center of their orbit stands Countess Amelia Ashargrin, looking absolutely radiant after hours of attention from these people.

She is clad in an ornate white silk dress, decorated with strings of pearls and pink ribbons tied into little silk flowers. The dress is formfitting enough to accentuate her curves, but cut well enough to preserve some of her modesty – which was probably the Baron’s idea and not Cheran’s. Her long blond hair has been done up, woven around several white roses and built up to cascade in waves down from the top of her head. Perched there is a silver tiara studded with emeralds, and held in place by several woven long strands of hair. Currently her veil is sitting off to the side on the desk, allowing the crowd of worker bees access to her face. One by one her attendants will come in, sweep their brushes across her face as delicately as any painter, and then depart to go retrieve the next brush. All but one attendant, who stands off to the side, simply watching the proceedings and giving off much the same disturbing air as your escorting guard.

At the sound of the door opening, the activity slows to a stop as the artists pause to look at you curiously. Having heard the door as well and curious to know why her sculptors have stopped, Amelia holds up a hand to keep them at bay and turns her head. Although all the meticulously applied makeup made her look radiant, the Countess’s face actually lit up at the sight of you, as she finally managed a smile.

“Pyrene! What are –“ She exclaimed, twirling around to fully face you. She takes a step forward, but something pulls her stride short with a soft clatter. Amelia’s smile fades with this reminder of her current situation, and she carefully lifts the hem of the dress up, allowing you to see a set of shackles locked around her ankles. The dull lusterless iron of the chains stands out in sharp contrast to the brightness of the rest of Amelia’s outfit.

“They’re afraid I’ll still try to run away. In the middle of the ceremony, I guess.” She explains wryly. The barest hint of a smile returns to her lips as she critically examines your own dress.

“So, let me guess – Cheran? Since you’re here I assume they managed to catch you again? I heard something about them making you serve as my bridesmaid.”

A shadow crosses over the Countess’s face as a thought occurs to her.

“Or was that just another lie they told me? Did you never escape at all and they’ve just been keeping you separate until now. And if you never escaped than that means Korram and his daughter . . . oh!”

Tears begin welling at the corners of Amelia’s eyes, and she seems about to break out into sobs. A common act amongst brides-to-be, or so you’ve heard, but it was doubtful these tears were caused by happiness or even anxiety. Before you could say any words to banish this particularly dark thought, the idle servant snapped into action. Wadding purposely through the other attendants who scattered out of his path, he smoothly slid up behind Amelia. And then he smoothly rammed his fist into her right kidney, causing her to stiffen and gasp in pain. He wrapped his other arm around her to make sure she didn’t fall, and held her close. And then he hit her again.

“No more crying.” He hissed loudly into her ear. “We’ve had enough setbacks today because of your weepy eyes. If you don’t want to become known as the Blind Bride, I suggest you stop those tears immediately. Save them for after the wedding, when Sir Cheran can enjoy them – I’m sure he’ll give you plenty of reason to cry then. Do you understand me? Nod if you do.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Countess nodded, reaching up to dab at her wet eyes with her gloved hand. The man gave a sigh of irritation and released her, stepping back to beckon at the other workers.

“Hurry up. You have little time to finish before the ceremony.”

As the bastard worker went back to lurk in his corner, the other attendants swarmed forward once more. As they approached however, Amelia held up her hands.

“Wait. I want five minutes to speak privately with my bridesmaid. Surely we can spare that much time?” She asked, her eyes focused on the lone attendant. The man looked just as irritated as he had a moment before, and you thought he was going to step forward to hit her again. Instead he merely sighed and waved his hands dismissively.

“Fine. You’ve got two minutes.”

The man turned his attention to his “fellow” workers.

“Get out.”

Like a flock of startled birds, all of them immediately fled for the door. For his part, the chief worker went over to a chair and flopped himself down into it.

“And I’m staying. You’ve got two minutes, starting . . . now.”

Hurriedly, the Countess led you over to the chair farthest away from the vicious man, which wasn’t especially far at all in this small room. She motioned for you to sit, although she remains standing herself, evidentially fearing retaliation if she accidentally disturbed her dress somehow by the simple act of sitting. She takes one of your hands in hers, and leans forward to whisper down into your ear.

“I don’t want to do this. I *really* don’t want to do this Pyrene. But I don’t have any choice in the matter. Within the hour, I’m going to be married to the worst, foulest, most monstrous person I have ever met. I don’t suppose you have some way out of it? Some magic you could work to fry my mind, some curse you could utter that would cause me to vomit blood at the altar? I’m not looking for a way out anymore . . . I just want to deny Cheran his fun, even at the cost of my own life.”

Although determined, all you could see in the Countess’s eyes was despair, and fear of what Cheran would do to consummate their marriage. Death at this point would be a release for her . . . but you were a temptress, not a witch. You didn’t have the first idea how to go about cursing your friend, and short of setting her on fire or snapping her neck with your bare hands, you didn’t know how to kill her. And both of those options had a chance of being thwarted by either your mage collar or the guard sitting attentively nearby, coiled and ready to explode out of the chair in violence if anything proceeded beyond mere conversation. Once more, you were trapped by people’s expectations – at least in Ironheart, you just had horrible nightmares to deal with.

WhiteKnight777

At your question, Fianna frowned – a conscious effort, more for your benefit than hers.

“I am not sure, love. Consider what you would do in his place. He might be trying to unify the most powerful people he can find for some common goal. However, that won’t stop him from making plans to eliminate us if he feels our loyalty is questionable. Remember when Zariel first showed up? It took Shiakti falling in love with him *and* his information on where to find an angel to convince you to stop planning his death. I suppose what I mean to say is, whichever path you choose for us, it should be one that you plan to commit to. Agreeing to aid the Baron now but planning to turn on him later may end up putting us in more danger than outright refusing to ally with him now. Then again, I imagine you won’t find that as much fun as trying to out double-cross him. It’s also possible that he doesn’t want an alliance with us at all, but simply wishes to discuss some other important business. Regardless, we might as well hear what he has to say first.”

And then there was no time to discuss the issue any further, as you have arrived at the cathedral. There are, of course, guards everywhere, as much for appearances as to keep the riff-raff out. Despite not arriving in a carriage, the guards are smart enough to recognize that the two of you are here for the wedding. As it turns out, they don’t even have to push the crowd back to allow you to pass – the commoner filth is wise enough to look at you and realize they would prefer to be as far away from you as possible. This meant crossing through the line of commoners quite easy, and within another minute you and Fianna are walking up the steps into the cathedral. The air is filled with the sound of music from a group of troubadours energetically playing, even within the stone walls of the building. Just inside the front door seems to be the gathering place for all of the Baron’s guests, as a large number of them are milling about aimlessly, chattering at each other. Noble politics, you presume – it was so much nicer back in your day when powerful men who didn’t like each other agreed to go out and stab each other in the chest with sharp implements. Or at least more entertaining – whatever these sycophantic socialites were plotting, it was undoubtedly petty and boring.

Standing in the middle of this motley assortment of your inferiors was the Baron, perhaps the one man in the room whose ambitions matched yours. Like you, he was dressed in a finely cut suit, complete with a short bright red cape that stood out in sharp contrast to the darkness of his suit. The cape was, of course, attached to his shoulders with golden clips, and not some sort of clasp at his throat – the Baron was not a moron. Seeing your arrival, he put on his best fake smile and moved to greet you.

“Ah, Lord Umber and the beautiful Fianna. I am pleased to see that you decided to accept my invitation.”

Lowering his voice slightly so that the music would drown out any listeners, the Baron continues.

“I am a little busy playing host at the moment, so I would be delighted if you could stay until the conclusion of the ceremony for us to discuss business. If you yourselves are in a hurry, however, I could excuse myself from the proceedings for a brief period. Should you choose to wait, I am sure I could find some entertainment to keep you amused until the ceremony begins. I certainly understand if you would prefer to avoid socializing with these . . . fine . . . people for any longer than is strictly necessary.”

Gorgondantess

At your offer to dress himself, Omnicron nods.

“Fair enough. Prudence is always an admirable trait.”

Picking through his clothes, he dresses quickly – it is obvious that he has trained to be able to do so. Why was less apparent though . . . perhaps in the event that he was caught by surprise while naked – literally with his pants down, as it were.

Finished dressing in moments, the man sits back down. He quirks an eyebrow at Maurice when you identify her.

“Really?” He says, voice filled with interest, and perhaps a bit of disbelief.

“Yes.” Was Maurice’s one word reply, as she momentarily shifted into angel form to extend her wings, before resuming her human guise.

“Hrm. Very interesting. Perhaps then the gods are on your side of the conflict, and not ours. That would certainly be unexpected!”

He added with a dry chuckle. As you begin to answer his question, the Dusk Warden listens attentively. He listens attentively to your questions that follow, but is silent for a long time afterwards. Finally, he sighs, rubbing his face.

“Well, the answers to your last questions are more complicated, so I will answer your first one first. My weapons are fashioned by myself, and require no special materials. With the stoneworking tools I have in my pack, I could fashion another set of daggers in a few hours. It is the runes carved into them that give them their power – stone is just the most useful medium to work with as it holds the runes readily and prevents them from being accidentally altered during battle. The knives I gave to your subordinate did come from rock dug up in my homeland, and so I would appreciate it if you gave them back at some point. If you are still concerned about them being employed against us, simply keep them from me for another twenty-four hours – the runes are designed to erase themselves if I don’t chant over them daily. We don’t want anyone stealing our work.”

Omnicron gave you a self-depreciating smile, and then continued.

“Beyond that, I cannot tell you much about them. I am a mere initiate in my order, a foot soldier in the battle to come, and thus I have not been taught any of the exact details. I’ve just had it drilled into my head from childhood how to carve the runes into material, and that stone is the best material to use. I do know that the magic of the runes targets the soul and not the body – thus, whatever armors or other defenses you can erect will be largely useless. You should also not expect my brethren to come after you with just these knives when they finally decide to mobilize. I know the Dusk Wardens have access to far more deadly weapons, although knowledge about them was for others and not me.”

Here the man pauses a moment to sigh again.

“And now to your more difficult questions. The group you encountered was a mere watching party, a handful of men among handfuls that are scattered across the continent to watch and wait. Being the closest to your original position, they were sent to investigate the disturbance the Oracles felt. It was hoped but not expected that they would be able to deal with you before you could reach full strength, if indeed you were an actual Archdemon. What a nonsense idea, don’t you think? But such is the way of life for a Dusk Warden, and they went to fight you as they were duty bound to do. My entire society is like that – bound in a rigid net of ritual and discipline, no place or time for anything but vigilance and duty.”

As he continued to speak, Omnicron’s voice raised in pitch and increased in tempo. Although he gave no physical sign of it, you sensed that he was quite angry.

“Those words that were shouted at you, “For Athelion the Lifebringer”? Those are the words we have been instructed to shout as we engage in battle, as part of the ritual of our lives. There is no meaning attached to those words, we just do it because that’s what our ancestors did!”

Omnicron scoffed.

“I am no theologian, I cannot explain the difference in titles although I know that it exists. But I do know that it is ritual and nothing more! There is no Athelion who watches down on us and guides us. Our lives are guided by the proscribed actions of our ancestors, who had their actions proscribed in the same way by their ancestors. On and on, an endless cycle of discipline and preparation, validated only by the occasional appearance of one of your kind. Every dozen generations, leaving the other eleven generations to wait in rigid anticipation for an event that never comes!”

The man shakes his head in disbelief, lowering it now to stare down at his feet, his voice still heavy with emotion, although now more sadness than anger.

“Before you appeared I thought it all a mad trick played upon us by generations long dead. I thought I was the only sane man left in my civilization, the only one could see our ceaseless waiting as stagnation. Now I do not know, because I know that you do exist, even if not as monstrous as the stories claim. But I also know that my brother was killed, too weak to survive the harsh training that the initiates are put through – regrettable in my society’s eyes. But necessary to ensure that only the strong survive to meet the Archdemon, should one ever appear in our lifetimes. My sister was chosen to be an Oracle – something considered an honor by my people. But for that honor she is subjected to brutal torture daily, the agony the catalyst for projecting her consciousness into the world to search for you. A search that may have well been futile, and required her disposal and replacement in another few years after she could no longer endure the strain.”

Now Omnicron leans forward, the same exact damnable way all humans lean forward when about to discuss something they think should be kept secret. At least his voice does not drop to a whisper, but retains its same fever pitch.

“What I am about to suggest is worse than treason, it is blasphemy, a violation of everything I have been taught. But the way I see it, my people are all already dead. Whether you kill us all – something which I find doubtful, given that my society exists for the sole reason of hunting you down and killing you – or whether we kill you is irrelevant. Even if you are destroyed, my society will go on, once again confident that the sacrifices it has made are worth it to keep the world safe from the likes of you. But the sacrifices are *not* worth it. Someday, there truly will be no more Archdemons, and my society’s vigilance will be in vain. And then my society will stagnate, it will decay, and then it will die. I don’t want that to happen - I am sick of this profitless cycle of death. And while I have no reason to ask this of you, I have only one more question for you. Will you join me in trying to save my people from themselves?”

The man extends one hand out to you beseechingly.