Bio: Leta was born to two civil servants in the 9th district, an Azorius Arrestor, and a Boros Wojek, as far as she knows, both died in the invasions and she has been left to pick up the pieces of her life unassisted.
Puddles formed on the muddy streets, people rushed by each other, hiding from the rain under their cloaks and coats. None noticed the woman using her cloak to cover her arm.
She had practice going unnoticed.
Her shoulder ached in the rain, it always did. She could feel the storm coming, a dull ache in the hours before the first drops would fall. The price of the gift given to her by her lord.
The woman walked towards the building the legion had commandeered, stepping into an alley nearby. She gave the immediate area a look. The upcoming holiday distracted the legion. She didn't anticipate anyone being nearby. Good fortune, for her and them.
She moved her cloak, stretching her arms experimentally, before leaping up easily to the second story and opening a window to slip inside. Taking a moment to close the window behind her, she made her way towards the main offices.
Her eyes scanned the desks, looking at correspondences. Useless drivel, like most legionary communications. She took the time to note the important details; positions of ships, rebuilding efforts after certain raids, and their theories on where “The Betrayer’s” forces were. She tucked a few of the letters into her cloak, before stepping to the desk she had been looking for.
A map. Several maps, all annotated. Legion positions, their numbers, the number of church support in the region. The amount of people they needed to protect.
The perfect tool for planning. She stowed these safely in her cloak as well. Walking over to one of the candles, she pulled out her firestarter to begin lighting it. The small flame fizzled, the damp of the day making the process difficult.
“Who’s there?” A voice called out from the hallway.
She froze. Had someone seen her come in? What took them so long to arrive if that were the case?
She looked towards the doorway and cursed. From the window to the desk was a trail of muddy footprints, clear as day. She hadn't considered it to cause an issue, since the entire place would be rubble by the time anyone could have noticed.
A stupid mistake, but one that could easily be rectified.
The door opened and the guard peered in. He didn't even get a chance to scream. Claws flashed, slashing his throat, panicked eyes looking up as he fell.
The demon didn't even let him hit the floor. She caught him, lowering him to the ground gently. No point in risking other guards investigating. She doubted any of his friends would hear the gurgling croaks of his death rattle.
Stepping over to the lantern the guard had been holding, she picked it up, smiled, and set it on the table next to the man. Then she simply tipped it over onto the papers on that desk. Her smile widened as the flames hit the oil of the lantern, burning hotter and faster.
No one noticed a young woman in a cloak leaving the rainy town. People came and went every day.
The eighth was hard to pin down. She traveled now, between the planes in a... Boat? A boat that flew. The eldest of the traitors spoke of it, but their description of the silver ship boggled her mind.
It didn't matter. Octavia would be here. She came to the plane once a week at least. And plus, she had friends here. And her siblings. And... Chortos.
She hadn't been allowed to visit Chortos. He would not see her. He hadn't cried, but the haunted, knowing look on his young face unnerved her enough to just go.
So now she was camped out at the cafe, a day late. The eighth had been there the day before, and rather than the ship, she had found a bustling feline themed cafe. Everyone wore silly dresses, with headbands with fake cat ears (even the ones who already had upright ears to begin with).
It was charming.
It was distracting.
But she still stayed when the feline canid recommended she try a drink. It was good. Cold, and earthy, with a pink berry jelly in it. It was green. She liked things that were green. The city felt lacking in them.
The fox thing watched her try the drink, teeth bared in a grin. "So, do you like it?"
Nona nodded, straw still in her mouth. It was already half gone. They giggled at her, the bells on their head ornamentation jingling as their head tilted to the side to study her.
It was cute.
It was distracting.
She was here on a mission. She couldn't get distracted like this. The traitors had to die. She could feel her mom's shade howling, beating on the doors to Nyx, cursing her for her betrayal. She set the drink down slowly, suddenly hesitant.
It frowned. "Is it not actually good? If it sucks you can tell me, I'll make you something new. I just figured you'd like it, your siblings all do."
Ah. Of course. It was something traitors enjoyed. She stared at the cup like it was a venomous beast. "I... I have things I should be doing. I can't stay here."
The wailing anger subsided, as she stood and left. Despite the relief, she felt her heart sink at the expression of the kitsune behind the counter.
She shouldn't be feeling that. She couldn't be worried about that kind of thing. She had a duty, a mission. She would carve a path to Nyx in blood, and be reunited with her mother. She just had to find her— the traitors. Not her siblings anymore. Not truly.
The eighth, the second, and the first. They would die. Telete would be appeased.
And maybe the gnawing hole in her heart would hurt less.
Punishment inflicted on someone as vengeance for a wrong or criminal act.
Nona just wanted her mother back.
The altar was stained with gore now, from her own sacrifices. She still could not call her mother's shade to her. She wanted to hear her mother one last time, to have her blessing before she left The Vale. Telete's cleaned skull sat atop the altar. She had stolen it once the carrion birds were finished. The hollow eye sockets only reminded her of what had been stolen from her.
By them.
Her own siblings, the ones who tried to raise her, to take her mother's position in her absence. But Nona loved their mother still. She was loyal to her. She knew that she had her reasons and left for a good cause. Telete had told her so. Nona had actually listened when she spoke of the glories of Xenagos's revels and what could be again when the god returned.
She had been there that night. She had seen it first hand. She was among the crowd. But she had been a coward. A scared child. She ran and hid when the fighting started. But she still saw everything. The eighth (to speak her name would be an insult to Telete's memory) had killed their mother in cold blood. And then left, after all the harm she had caused.
She hadn't returned for their mother's funeral. Orsippos had barely attended. Her other sisters had shown, they had put on their little show of wailing and crying, but none of them really cared. No one but Nona beat their breasts until there were bruises, tore at their hair in grief, knew all the words to all of the dirges and chanted them perfectly.
No one truly mourned but her.
Traitors, all.
She knew what she must do now. She was scared she didn't have the strength to do it. But she knew that even if she had failed her in life, and failed to contact her shade in death, she would avenge Telete. She would find her mother's killer. She would kill her. And then the rest of the traitors.
She had Telete's knife, tip still broken. She had other weapons, donated by her mother's peers, poisons and daggers all offered up in the name of avenging Telete. But not one of the cowards stepped up to do it themselves. Not one maintained the altar with the ferver her mother had.
Traitorous cowards.
Nona would go. She was the only one who cared. Her mother's lone avenger. If they cared they would be here with her. If they cared they would also be baying for blood. Their tears were lies. Not one of them actually loved her mother like she did.
Nona stood in front of the Omenpath. This is the one she had seen Proteus use. This was where Chortos was being held. This was her first stepping stone.
She had her list.
Octavia. Secunda. Proteus. The eighth, the second, and the first.
Rain slides the communicator away, grumbling as he puts the ruined welder onto his desk. It would have to be scrapped. Completely rehoused, if there were still any working components in it. He went to the engine room, pulling one of the batteries from the generator, and replacing it with an empty one, carrying the battery back. He hooked up a second welder to the battery and continued his work.
It'd been years since he needed to do that. He had managed to power smaller, hand held tools without a battery since he was 16. He wondered why he was having surges now. He knew his magic, his electricity was based on his emotions. If he got angry, he sparked and had a constant charge going through his body, but he wasn't angry, or stressed. Right now he just felt… nothing?
Maybe he should examine that more. Instead he continues welding the vent he had noticed damage in. The damn pigeon-rats had chewed through another section of wiring, and he had to burn out part of the vents to get to it. He shouldn't be doing this. His arms ached, and his back screamed for relief.
He wondered where Octavia was. She was visiting Chortos but that was hours ago, surely he would be asleep by now? He pushed the thought away. She’s fine. It's not his place to worry anymore, anyway. They had both made their decisions.
A few sparks crackled off his hair.
Rain looked at the patch job he did, examining the edges where the damage ended, and sighed with satisfaction at the inability to tell where the damage had occurred. No one would see this, except maybe 3-V, but that didn't mean he wanted to do shoddy work. He stepped down, letting his muscles relax.
He picks up his communicator and flips to Octavia’s contact. His fingers hover over the buttons to message her… before he puts it down with a sigh. It's not his place. He had made his decision. Now he lives with it. She was fine.
He hoped.
Part of him wished he didn't care, wished he could accept that Octavia was somewhere. Or wished he could lie to himself better. Convince himself she was out partying, or having fun with friends. Wished he hadn't noticed her exhaustion. He pushes those thoughts from his mind as well.
A few more sparks.
For the hundredth time that day, he told himself, again. It wasn't his place. He'd made his choice, and she'd made hers. They were friends, and barely at that point. Then he shoved the thoughts away, and began planning tomorrow.
More sparks.
Tomorrow was Leta’s funeral. Tomorrow he needed to be on his best behavior. Koda needed support, and Rain didn't know if he trusted anyone else who would be there to give it. He'd have to push more of his anger down.
This was his place, now. Because of the decisions he'd made.
A single spark fell, as the dull, empty feeling washed over him again.
Tomorrow was a new day.
He hoped it would bring new problems, not more of the same, but he doubted it.
It had been an odd day for Octavia. She had gone to visit her brother... She thinks. She remembered listening to him at the table. That was probably real, she remembered the feeling of the pencils in her hand and she doodles with him.
But she also remembered feeling like there were ants inside of her hands, so it was hard to tell.
She closed her eye for just a moment, and it was so dark when she woke up. How long had she managed to sleep? No one came rushing to help, so she must not have woken up screaming this time. She was so tired. The nightmares wouldn't let her sleep.
She dropped off Chortos' plushie in his room. He had been sleeping, fitfully, but he calmed down once she had carefully tucked the plush under his arm. She was jealous. And she knew it was irrational. She wanted to rest like that. To feel safe. She was so tired.
It took her a while to get down the stairs. Her balance was off, but the way the stairs swam and bent didn't help. She stopped into the kitchen for a snack on her way out. She saw Froggy in the cupboard when she opened it for snacks, but she'd been seeing a lot of things that weren't there lately, so she ignored her.
She needed to get back to the Silverwing.
Rain was...
There.
Not really waiting for her. No one was waiting for her. She had all the time in the world to...
Do something.
FRG-NUL-47, who may or may not have actually been there, was staring at her. She must have fallen asleep for a few seconds. Again. She smiled at the vision and closed the door. She had spent enough time intruding upon Lethaltooth and Silentsign's hospitality. She was mad no one had woken her up. She had work to go to. She needed to keep busy. She was so tired.
She had no more tears to cry about it, she had already cried the last time she woke up from a nightmare and it took a while for her to stop. Piloting training was on pause after she (allegedly) fell asleep at the wheel. Rain was still upset about that one. She could see his shadow hovering outside of her door sometimes when she was failing to sleep. Her bed felt so cold and empty and even after everything, unsafe. She may be co-owner, but what use was it if she couldn't get though a conversation without falling asleep for a few seconds at any slight lull in conversation? She was so tired. She was so tired. She was so—
On Innistrad. Not the ship.
This was not where she had meant to planeswalk.
Did she fall asleep while planeswalking...? The burned out wreckage of her mentor's home was right where she had left it and so were the grave markers and the grass had begun to regrow over the churned ritual circle from when she had trained with her friends and the leylines hummed deep in the earth in a way she always found comforting.
She needed to be closer. Laying in the churned earth as she had come to be was not enough. The basement. There was a basement. That's when she kept the last of her mentor's things. It had survived the fire, and the angel, and the things and the monsters.
Sanctuary.
She was so tired.
Maybe.. maybe it would be a place to rest. Quiet as the grave, like they always say! And she needed to get inside. The shadows outside of the clearing were beginning to roil and writhe in a way that could be very real on Innistrad and not just her fried brain or eye failing her and She was so tired.
The stone of the cellar floor hummed with power, enough she could feel in crawling across her skin. Or maybe that was the ants again. She floor was nice and cold, even if it was hard. She dragged whatever cloth or coverings she could find, creating a nest. But she left enough space that her hand could touch the ground. The leylines still pulsed soothingly and she wanted to feel them. The cellar door was firmly bolted, and she was finally alone. She had started crying. Probably when the tiles of the floor began to wave and swirl. She was thankful for the snack that FRG had given her. At least, she's pretty sure that's what happened. It was hard to tell when She was so tired. She was so tired. She was so tired she was so tired so tired so tired so
COLD! She woke up shivering. But not screaming. And the walls weren't melting this time. There was daylight streaming through the cracks of the cellar doors. The leylines still hummed soothingly below the stone below her freezing hand. She would need to get back to the Silverwing soon, if she hadn't returned last night. Rain... Might be worried. But probably not. He could wait for a few more minutes anyways.
Octavia took a few minutes to enjoy it, the quiet. The feeling of having rested.
DENIZENS OF THE PLANES, HAS THIS EVER HAPPENED TO YOU?
YOU WANTED TO GO SOMEWHERE, BUT WAIT! ALL KINDS OF DANGERS! FROM SCYTHECATS TO CROCODILES, BALOTHS TO DIRECTIONS!
SO MANY THINGS TO SEE, SO MUCH TO EXPLORE! BUT SO MUCH DANGER! YOU NEED TO HIRE A GOBLIN SHORTCUTTER! I AM A TRAINED PROFESSIONAL. I HAVE A PET.
CONTACT TODAY! DISCOUNTS ARE CURRENTLY BEING APPLIED TO TRAVEL THAT REQUIRES THREE OR MORE OMENPATHS!
travel to Zendikar is currently off limits. Strange doors will be avoided.
DON'T JUST HEAR ABOUT THE WORLD, SEE THE WORLD!
She found herself there many nights, closing her eyes and waking up in the cold, dark closet, alone with her face pressed against the rotting wall paper skin of Duskmourn. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes she wasn't. Tonight, Telete was there. The phantom of her mother's smiling, serene face leered at her, knife still through her throat and blood still on her mouth.
Octavia hated how happy she looked.
Like she didn't have a care in the world.
Like she had truly gotten everything she wanted.
Like it didn't matter that some part of Octavia was happy she was dead.
Like Octavia wouldn't wake up from this dream and wash her hands raw for the hundredth time, hoping to stop feeling the hilt of the knife and the warmth of the blood.
"You were so eager to take a life! You broke the tip of my knife off in my altar. I'm so proud of you, Octavia." Telete's mouth moved out of sync, fuzzy as her brain tried to string together enough memories to even guess what Telete would look like saying those words. But she still looked as happy as she had when she had died. The smile she wore when she was playing nice and being subtle in her cruelty.
"You wedged the tip into the stone. You know, when you stabbed me." The wallpaper against her face felt wet.
"No one actually believes it was an accident. They all know how much you claimed to hate me." It was blood again. She could feel it running down the wall, mixing with the coating of oil on the floor.
"And now you've proved it to them! And you've proved to me how much you love me. You brought me home, to Nyx, to find our god." It was already beginning to slowly fill the doorless room. She didn't bother trying to stand. She remained seated as it began to rise past her hips.
"He's not gone. And neither am I."
Octavia knew that was truth. Telete would never be gone. Was it grief, that kept her here? Or anger? Was it a bitterness that her own cruelty hadn't been enough to hurt her mother in her last moments?
Bitterness that Telete had died happy, after failing to kill two of her children and being sacrificed on her own altar?
Was it the look on Nona's face from the shadowed edge of the clearing as she was pulled away by Vasro? The horror and haunting grief and regret on her younger sister's face, which she had hoped mirrored her own? (It didn't. She knew it didn't. She hadn't felt much of anything for a while afterwards, and her face reflected it.)
As the blood reached her neck, she wondered idly who would be there to not pull her out this time. Rain, looking down in disgust as she drowned in a crimson tide? Biilzie, grinning, watching her flounder in the disaster she had created?
... It was Chortos again. The heart broken and haunted look on his face as he watched her drown again in their mother's blood. He turned away before she slipped under every time, lead away by someone she couldn't see. It always hurt the most when she woke up choking after that.
She scrubbed her hands raw with cold water in the bathroom. They stung, at first, before they went numb from the temperature. She didn't bother looking in the mirror as she pulled out her concealer, an ancient bottle she still used from Lake at Strixhaven. It would cover up the bags under her eyes.
It was only noticeable when you got close. No one would notice.
The buzz through his body is what alerted him that something had changed. The feeling going up through his spine, a rush like he had felt only while using the Omen-Generator. He staggered over to his mirror, the cracked glass revealed him. A misshapen, hunched thing. The Generator sticking out of his back, tendrils of nectotized flesh going towards his eyes. His bright purple eyes. He staggered away, as if he has been struck.
Stop resisting, Rain. What do you fight for? It's all gone.
He shook his head. It wasn't, he knew it wasn't. Octavia had won, she had beaten this thing. He opened his door, maybe if he could find her this would be over.
He opened his door to see smoldering remains. It was obvious who it was, between the horns and the non-human legs. And the one eye.
You did this. You killed her, just like you've killed everyone who's loved you. Just give up.
No. No this couldn't be right. He hadnt hurt Octavia that bad, he knew he hadn't. He couldn't have.
"Another one, darling?" He could hear the cruel mockery of life in the voice before he turned. The metal imitation of life. As he turned, he felt her claws sink into his skin.
"You've really developed a knack for killing us. And you think the demon is bad, for killing people he doesn't know? What does that make you?" He tried to open his mouth, to say something, to make some retort, as he did she kissed him, and he could feel her tongue, or whatever this thing had instead of one, lodge down his throat. He struggled, he fought, but he couldn't pull away from the metal grip this thing had.
"You always struggle right till the end. Like a worm on a hook."
Rain snapped awake with a scream, immediately taking a gasping breath. He ran over to the mirror, still shattered. He turned to the polished metal of the walls, then, to see a reflection.
It was him. Despite it all. Despite the flecks of purple that didn't seem to fade from his eyes.
With a burst of smoke and sparks, I arrive on a familiar island. Small, scrubby, notable only for the state of its sands. The beach has been kicked up and melted to slag, walls of glass forming into shapes bizarrely reminiscent of some areas of the Prismari campus.
“Hi, Leta.”
My eyes are closed. My wings are folded close to my body.
“I did what you said.”
One of my hands moves to hold the dragon-claw necklace she left me, hanging heavy around my neck.
“Well. I did what you said not to do. Used you as an excuse to go on a bender. This time, I dragged Octavia down with me. You said you’d kill me. You haven’t even shown up, but I think Rain wants to, now. Octavia, too. I… fucked her up.”
I sit heavily, my hands shaking just a tiny bit.
“I’ve had friends die before. Plenty of times. Martha, Big Iron. Everyone in the Kamigawan pits died for me, even the ones I liked. Hells, I killed Mel myself! Your death shouldn’t… it shouldn’t hurt,” I lie, my head catching fire.
I sigh, squeezing myself, the flames dying down.
“Vasro won’t accept you’re dead. Neither will Roxie. But… I know a bit about souls. I know that if you made it, you would’ve fucking told one of us by now. And since you didn’t, and you almost certainly died here, or one of us would’ve found you by now, you’re still here. Or, you should be. I think. Everything’s… more complicated now.”
I let out a groan, flopping onto my back, wings spread.
“And mostly worse. But, you don’t need to worry about that anymore. Don’t need to worry about anything. Lucky bitch.”
I sigh, I clear my throat, and I stand again, dropping a handful of coins to the sand. About enough to buy a coffee.
“He says ‘ow,’ by the way. That’s… that’s the end of the joke. Feels pretty underwhelming now, doesn’t it?” I let out a strangled laugh, tears of glowing black mana hitting the sand. “Ow. Ow. FUCK!” I slam my fist into one of the raised sheets of blasted glass, then hit again until it shatters, streaked with black blood. I’m shaking.
By the time I leave, nothing of the island remains above the water.
A warning to all ravnicans, but especially those who spend time in the undercity or the sewers and storm drains
There is a group of people smuggling in weapons and other supplies from Omenpaths. We know at least some of them are guild members, and they stash their supplies in various dead drops. Be careful if you see any surface guild member (such as an Azorius or Boros) doing things alone in the undercity. These people will jump to lethal force immediately to try to keep their ring out of sight.
I would appreciate any information you all get, as my injuries are preventing me from doing a lot of ground work here.
The condemnation of a cardinal was one of the rarest events in the history of the Church of Dusk. It was something that had only occurred six times prior.
One being accused of one of the crimes considered a high heresy was even rarer. It had only occurred once when the then-clergy Tarrian had been exposed for his heretical writings venerating a dark god. That trial had been hidden behind many locked doors, kept away from the rest of the burgeoning Church of Dusk to try and prevent a potential schism.
This trial, however, would be made a little more public.
The lowest clergy allowed to attend were the bishops, all of whom had been called back to Alta Torrezon with all haste. A few hundred made their appearance; many were still afield, and had to write apologies for their absence as the needs of their flocks were too great. By all estimates, however, the majority were here, and that was all that would be required.
Every single cardinal was summoned and present. No excuses. Not in a matter such as this. They had been arranged in more special seating to the left and to the right of the hall this was taking place within.
The Legion had also been largely barred from being allowed to bear witness to the trial. While many stood guard outside the cathedral this was taking place inside, none were present. Not even the High Marshals. This was a clerical matter, and within the clergy it would remain.
Pontifex Fein stood before a beautifully carved dais, hands clasped in front of him. His new vestments allowed his wings to move freely without needing to fear destroying his clothes entirely. At present, they were folded like a cloak around his shoulders, the strange starlit markings of the inner membrane twinkling in the low light. His eyes were still as dark as they were before he had embraced his ascension to becoming a Venerable, but now there was something deeper in them. Some had sworn they saw a microcosm of the stars themselves while taking oaths or giving tribute. His face was neutral, but stern.
Near to him was a long and low table which had been covered in neatly arrayed books and papers. Evidence. Confessions. It had already been shared among the gathered cardinals in the nights leading to this.
To say, however, that it was only high clergy present would be a lie. Two souls violated this edict by necessity; the grandchildren of the accused, Cecurro and Lazaro Ayere. They had been offered special seating in order to be more easily called upon if required. Lazaro had opted to stay near to his adopted father rather than be singled out. Their presence did cause a bit of a stir among the ones who gathered, but Llorente assured them that an explanation would be given in due time.
The accused himself was standing alone. He stood upon a beautiful mosaic of the dusk rose, the holy symbol of the church, while moonlight that streamed in through one of the high stained glass windows depicting the Saint bathed him in silver. It was contrasted by the steady flickering orange and yellow from the candles that had been lit, more out of habit and comfort than necessity. Not a single soul here was anything but a vampire, after all.
He stood tall, shoulders back, head held high. His hands, still black-stained, were clutched behind his back, nearly blending in to the deep black of the vestments he wore. He came in his full regalia as cardinal, as did many of his fellows, not wishing to look meek for a time such as this. His silvered eyes swept over the assembly, and even looked to the pontifex himself. An audacious thing, yes. But he was already damned in one sense.
Bells sang the hour. Midnight. All talking within the cathedral ceased.
"Brothers and sisters," Mavren Fein began, his voice echoing so that all in attendance could hear him. He spoke in the lingua sancta of Torrezon. "I thank you all for attending, and I apologize for the short notice of this summons. This is an issue most dire, and it is one that requires teaching and remediation at once, without delay."
All eyes were focused on the pontifex now, including that of the cardinal accused.
"Cardinal Theodors Ayere," he continued. "In most normal circumstances, your overreaching in my absence would require nothing more than an assurance of penance and some closer and more restricted guidance. Demotion would be something considered as a temporary measure, though ultimately it may not have been necessary." The bishops exchanged some glances and whispers among themselves, but the cardinals remained steadfastly silent.
Theodors did not waver. He barely even moved as the pontifex spoke. He kept those strange silver eyes on him. Mavren could not help but hear the echoing of bells through time.
"Tonight, you stand before us accused of high heresy," he went on. "There is evidence that you have altered the Rite of Redemption on several occasions in order to purposefully manufacture those who would hunger for the blood of our own."
That drew a reaction from the assembled bishops. Theodors still did not move. He did not even blink.
"While many of those whom were affected by you were granted mercy after they succumbed to madness, two survived and still live with this burden that you have placed upon them to this day. You have decided to poison the souls of your own grandsons," Mavren said. Gasps went up around the assembled bishops. That got Theodors to finally move. A firming of the jaw. A twitch of the mouth. Disappointment came from the cardinals. Some even looked aggrieved and betrayed. One or two looked a bit haughty or smug.
"You are to answer for this heresy," the pontifex said, "and you are to be taught why it is even considered as such. This is obviously a lesson you have forgotten, and one that I wish to remind to all the high clergy."
Theodors bowed his head to Mavren. The pontifex spoke a word, and one of the books upon the table opened, a pen being readied. He then beckoned toward the assembled cardinals. One who had been sitting in the front row strode over, standing between Theodors and Mavren. It was the other cardinal who helped lead the Order of Condemnation, Cardinal Porfirio, a friend to Theodors in many words. There was a look of deep sympathy and guilt on his face. Theodors only nodded to him, and the other condemner began to weave an enchantment around him. This would bind him and bid him to only speak the truth as he fully understood it. Any indication of information being withheld or an attempt to lie would be known to Porfirio, who then took up a place beside the pontifex. A common enchantment for condemnation.
"First, let us hear your reasoning and justification for this... work." Mavren gestured to a small book on the table. "I shall then give to you my lesson. Then I shall pass my judgment."
Theodors nodded. He did not look back to find his grandchildren among the crowd.
"Begin."
"I began at a time of uncertainty for the Church of Dusk," Theodors said, and the pen dutifully began transcribing his words. "After we had begun stalling our advances beyond the Deoro, people were beginning to more evidently not put their faith in the Church nor in the Saint herself. Many were giving lip-service to the workings of the clergy, and so I decided to see if I could begin rectifying this at the source. Alterations to the Rite of Redemption were not unheard of when it came to making it safer or to prevent unwanted outcomes."
There was a shifting in Mavren's posture, but he continued to listen. All was quiet in the cathedral, save the voice of the cardinal as he gave his recollection.
"My alterations began small. The prayer associated with the Rite itself, the various oaths and pledges given, all were slightly changed in order to see if this would have any effect upon those who took it. My findings were that it could, as we already knew," Theodors made a small gesture with one hand. "But none were to the degree that I was looking for, nor were the candidates acting how I had wished."
Mavren continued to say nothing. His eyes were staring into Theodors, as though he was reading his soul.
"Several were, indeed, killed. Granted mercy after their hungers became far too uncontrolled and untamed. Some of whom even begged for it, may their souls find rest," Theodors continued, making a sign with one hand. "Since this was not working, I decided to turn to another means of controlling the Rite. I am a man who has always been incredibly devout and steadfast in my faith. Many would call me a zealot, but that is not something I shy away from. Thus, I decided to try something that would, indeed, count as heresy." He paused. The barbs of the enchantment began to wind around his mind, and he cleared his throat.
Mavren looked at him expectantly. Porfirio looked saddened and hurt.
"I began adding my own blood to what would be the First Meal for those who were finishing the Rite," Theodors said. Clamor went up among the assembled clergy, and Mavren raised his hands.
"Peace," he called. "Continue."
"The first few times it happened led to disastrous results," Theodors admitted with a sigh. "Many who took it began cannibalizing the others who were part of their class and were subsequently put down. I retired the idea, for a time, until I decided to undertake a Blood Fast for clearer understanding of what to do. It was in its aftermath that I understood what must be done. My own blood would not work for those who were not of my actual bloodline. This is when I turned to my only living family I had left at the time; my grandsons."
Among the crowd, Lazaro tensed and tried to look smaller. Llorente put an arm around him. The other bishops were staring.
"Cecurro is the older of the two, and thus took his Rite first. It was slightly delayed on account of the death of his father as well as a few other factors, of which we do have written account and accord, but afterwards he was doing quite well for himself. I had added some minor alterations to the Rite that would be distributed to Lazaro in order to aid him, as I feared the skittishness within him would restrict him and prevent him from achieving the greatness he deserved," Theodors explained. His tone was even, almost nonchalant. Proud. Although the cardinals had read the accounts and journals, a number of them were still shocked and appalled, mostly by how singularly unrepentant he had seemed.
"And it helped tremendously. Both of them were imbued with such great zeal and both began to flourish. Cecurro was on his way to becoming one of the most prolific condemners of the Order, as was Lazaro. And there was no sign of them succumbing as all of the others did." Theodors allowed the smallest of smiles to creep into his words. Lazaro shivered at it. At the barest edges of his perception, he felt a hand resting on his shoulder, and it did not belong to Llorente. "None until, of course, my eldest grandson was captured, starved, and practically broken by the people of the Free Cities."
"A condemnation you helped undertake," Mavren said slowly.
"One which he has since paid for," Theodors said, standing a bit taller. He was taller than the pontifex by a few inches, and Mavren thought it to be a poor attempt at potential intimidation.
"I am not going to recind the judgment passed, as I do agree with the ultimate decision," Mavren said, nodding.
"All of this to say that all of my actions were born from a need and want to preserve the faith," Theodors said as he clasped his blackened hands in front of him. "Never was it done as a means to usurp power or to dismantle the church. It was done in the opposite. Besides, I swiftly began to realize that the side effect of hungering for the blood of the condemned would also act as a potent motivator for the two of them. I do not know if this thesis has been entirely vindicated or not, but I would be more than willing to see."
"You speak as though this is nothing more than our usual experimentation with the Rite of Redemption," Mavren said flatly. Theodors nodded.
"As it is so, just through a slightly more personal angle," the cardinal replied. There was a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"You stand by all of your actions, past and present?"
"I do," Theodors answered. "I believe that I have erred in some ways, but my intentions were always pure. I wish to help bring us towards a better and brighter and more faithful future. I fully stand by my actions and doubt they can truly be called sinful."
Mavren sighed, shaking his head slowly.
"You do not understand, then," he said, his voice almost sad.
"Understand what?" Theodors asked, his smile still uneasy. Mavren let out a deeper sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Cardinal, do you understand why we consider the consumption of the blood of fellow vampires to be heresy?" he asked. Theodors drew his brows together.
"Because we are holy," he said with a small, nervous bit of laughter. "But surely this small side effect can be excused if it means creating the next generation of the most devoted and faithful." Mavren was practically glowering at him.
"Only a few decades removed and already the memory was dashed," he said, shaking his head. "Then again, we had done the same to the words and memory of our Blessed Saint, so I suppose I shall not be surprised."
Now the smile began to die. "What are you-"
"I was among the first to take the Rite of Redemption. This is known. What you seem to have forgotten is what happened to those who were my peers," Mavren answered, his shoulders squaring. "I shall correct this. And I wish for all who are present to hear me, and listen well."
The pontifex looked around the gathered assembly. Cardinals and bishops alike were focused on him. A few were quietly muttering amongst themselves, and he cleared his throat to get their attention. Briefly, he caught the eyes of both Lazaro and Cecurro, and there was something that flashed in there -- apology, grief, forgiveness -- before he looked back to Theodors.
"We did not fully understand what would happen if one drank from another vampire," Mavren said. "We were much like you, Cardinal. We were driven by curiosity and a desire to understand the limitations of the Rite, but we did also wish to see if there was a chance we could improve upon it. Would it make us more zealous if we introduced it? More steadfast? Stronger? Would it make our wounds heal faster? So many questions we had." His face became grim. "And soon after, we began seeing our answers."
The cardinal was staring at the pontifex a bit more intently now. Evidently, he did not know of this. It was expected. Mavren knew these experiments were, just like Tarrian's own trial and writings, locked away.
"Those who drank the blood of their fellows began to feel their hunger grow and grow and grow. Each time they drank, they became just a little hungrier, a little more bestial in nature. Until there was little other choice but to either inter them or kill and destroy them outright," Mavren explained. Melancholy tinged his words as much as he wished to keep them more matter-of-fact. "I persist only because I resisted the urge to submit myself to such experimentation. And due to the fact that I knew someone had to help ensure that no one would attempt it again. I was not the only one; we created a small order amongst ourselves dedicated to the preservation of the clergy, though none of them remain alive today."
A pause for the words to sink in. All was silent now.
"Once we began to see the effects it had upon us, we immediately codified it into being one of the highest heresies among the church. Any who were found willingly drinking the blood of our own were to be harshly punished, if not killed. It is an addictive thing, as it did confer some measure of greater power and vitality for a time. So we knew we had to do all we could to stamp it out. And so we have done so, and so I will continue to do so even now," Mavren proclaimed. He looked into the crowd. "However, you have caused for this to become a more unprecedented case. In the times before, all who drank the blood of their fellow vampires did so knowingly, willingly, out of a want to do so rather than a need. You have created a new case entirely which I have spent these past few nights contemplating alongside some of the other cardinals."
Theodors still did not look backwards. Eyes were once again flickering over to Lazaro and Cecurro. Lazaro was rigid, his eyes wide in both shock and horror. Llorente gently squeezed his son's shoulder. Lazaro could feel a measure of ephemeral anger nearby.
"According to what your grandsons have told to me, aside from the incident for which he has already been penitent for, they have remained in control of their instincts and hungers. They have been feeding from the blood of mortals, be they human or otherwise, and have been following all of the usual observances as set by the Church of Dusk. However," Mavren said, his word taking a bit of an edge to it, "I have also decided that it would be in my best interest as well as that of the clergy for me to personally keep a close watch on them, regardless. You have instilled this hunger and restlessness in them. We know what happens when one of us has nothing to subsist upon but animals instead of proper human blood, and I wish to see if such effects may befall these two if they do not feed on our vitae."
Lazaro felt his heart thump in his chest. Theodors maintained the gaze of the pontifex, hardly moving.
"Whether this destructive fate awaits them will also be yet to be seen," Mavren continued. "In many cases, they would be granted the Saint's mercy. Since neither of them consented to this, and both have demonstrated that they are, indeed, capable of acting as clergy in spite of what has been wrought upon them, I believe that cautionary observance can be extended to them for now. I have already spoke with them individually, and I will seek further audiences in future." He turned his attention to where they were among the clergy, inclining his head to them. His gaze then once more swept to the bishops and cardinals.
"If any seek to read their testimonies and confessions for themselves, they may do so afterwards." Mavren's wing swept out to encompass the table next to him. "I did not make this decision lightly or delicately, and nor will this next decision be so."
Theodors swallowed thickly. Now came the thing everyone was waiting for. Lazaro's heart once again hammered in his chest, and he pressed a hand to it, wincing in pain. Llorente leaned in to make sure he was alright, and Lazaro nodded tensely. Both were too distracted to notice that someone was slipping out and away from the trial.
"Theodors Peralta Ayere," Mavren spoke, his voice ringing clearly all around the cathedral. "For being unrepentant in your crimes against the doctrines of the Church of Dusk, for dragging innocent lives into the darkness of heresy, I hereby condemn you as a heretic. The living victims of your crimes have both requested you not to be put to Sanguis Extremis, and I shall listen to and acquiesce this. Instead, you are being forced into retirement. You are to be stripped of all clerical titles and duties, and you shall be under effective house arrest until I and the other cardinals have drawn up a means for reeducation and a path of potential penance. You are to turn in any and all artifacts and possessions belonging to the Church of Dusk. So it shall be written, so it shall be done."
A heavy silence hung in the air after the pronouncement. The pen stopped writing. Theodors was stunned. He knew it would mean penance, but removal?
"Your grace," he said, his voice sounding shakier now. "Your grace, I have given everything to the Church, you can't- I-"
"I can and will. For your own good, Theodors," Mavren said, his eyes and expression softening. "You are tired. You have, indeed, served the church faithfully for centuries. You have more than earned your rest."
"Rest?" he asked, sounding distressed and outraged. "I- I do not need rest! I have been... I..." He kept floundering, his jaw working as he fumbled over his words. Mavren stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Rest, Theodors. I will see you at dawn, after I have conferred with the other cardinals," he said. Theodors' eyes were practically aflame, but Mavren had imbued some measure of his newly invested presence in his words. Theodors could not refuse.
"As you will, Pontifex Fein," he said, his voice hollow. "As you will."
"This condemnation is adjourned," Mavren said, raising his voice. "Cardinals, please remain for further discussion over the fate of sir Ayere."
---
In all the history of Torrezon, only two souls had been condemned to high heresy while holding one of the highest positions within its clergy.
Time would tell if both would be the start of great schisms years after they occurred. Mavren hoped not, and had decided to not hide the second as much as the first.
From the way his soul had been broken, and the way he had looked infinitely and pitifully hurt, he did not think the man who walked from the cathedral would lead such a movement.
Then again, only time would tell.
Mavren could only pray that he had made the right decision.
It was a relatively clean part. He had spent several days working on it alongside the Torrezones themselves. And tending to the injured. And doing what he could for the dead, even though he wasn’t trained in their last rites; moving bodies didn’t require priest status.
But right now, he was taking a moment to himself and feeling the early-dawn sun on his skin. In his left hand was a letter addressed to Boss Koda Hayashi. In his right hand was a Sultai pendant.
Koda, if you’re reading this, then I’m sorry. I could never find the words, but I know I added to your stress when I should have helped shoulder that burden.
Thank you, for everything you’ve done. When I needed a home, you gave me one, when I needed a purpose, you helped me find one, when I needed a friend, you were there. I can’t express how deeply I appreciate that.
I know you’ll continue doing your best, but I want you to give yourself the breaks we both know you need.
Enclosed is a pendant of the Sultai, the dragon’s fang, a symbol of the ruthlessness dragons can bring.
I hope you can forge a world where your ruthlessness is no longer necessary.
-your friend, and student under the Kami, Leta
He kept reading the letter. It had been several days since he received it, since Biilziebub delivered it to him. Since he first came to accept that Leta was dead. All they had found was her sword and her right arm. She had to be dead.
He sighed and stood up. There was another ache. One in his kidneys of all places. He had overworked his magic and his body’s ability to channel kami. And for his own sake, he didn’t try pushing it. He wasn’t trying to get a fourth heart attack on his record.
Koda slipped the pendant back around his neck and held it tightly in his fist for a moment. The last line kept echoing in his mind as though Leta had said it herself. I hope you can forge a world where your ruthlessness is no longer necessary.
“I’m sorry that we were too late,” he whispered. He hoped that wherever Leta’s soul was, she could get the message. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save so many. I hope you can rest. After everything you’ve been through, you deserve it.”
He blinked away tears and made a promise. “I’m going to keep trying. I’m not going to work myself to dust anymore. But I’m going to make Kamigawa a better place. The kind of place you should have been able to lay your head after everything.”
Tears fell regardless. “I love you, Leta. I miss you.”
Adayn was calm. The Darkest Night was over, technically speaking. All the readings they were doing were pointing to the conflict not being over yet, but they were keeping that close.
Their bone throwing kit lay out in the open, although tidily wrapped. Now that the Inquisitiors weren't so bloodthirsty, they felt as if they could keep it out.
Valentina had gone to the local barracks. A priest was discussing with the Legionairres which of their allies had died and which survived and what the newly reminted Pontifex was decreeing.
Adayn had decided not to come with, and asked Val only to tell them if someone they knew closely had died. Mostly out of concern that if they heard a full death count they'd burst into flame, scaring the Legionairres.
A grandfather clock ticked away the minutes.
There was a soft knock at the door, a rhythm used to identify the couple to eachother. Adayn answered the door.
Val's cheeks were tearstreaked, and her eyes were deadened.
"Who?" Was all Adayn asked.
The flames would've blinded a human. As it stood, they still hurt Valentina's eyes. Adayn was the brightest point in the room, although nothing else was catching ablaze.
"Leta." They whispered. "It can't be."
"Adayn, my love-"
"No. It cannot be!"
Every plant in the room, of which there were many, began moving of their own volition.
It took a while to calm Adayn again, but calmed they were. But they had to check something.
They crossed the room and opened their bone throwing kit, setting it up in the proper way and passing the five bones between their hands, before throwing them.
"What do you see, my love?" Val asked.
"Very confusing. The Humerus is in the direct middle and links the Vertebra in the New Moon to the Wishbone and Knuckle in the Hunter's Moon."
"Which means?"
"Her fate is a time for us to forge ahead but confusing matters something terrible happened of course in the past and will happen in the future. All of this is linked somehow. And yet the Tooth lies in the Hunter's Moon. Fear of what comes next and the flame of warding?"
"What does it all mean then?"
"I may never know. I just hope she... I hope she took those bastards out with her."
Pulses, dull, weakened, of a heart barely beating.
Claws on shorn armor and skin, and then a sensation of moving. She felt her stomach turn, and the urge to vomit at the sudden movement. She tried to open her eyes, but they were so heavy. She just needs to rest a little bit longer.
She comes to being dropped, roughly on the ground. Her right arm aches, or perhaps the memory of it aches. The shoulder burns with an intense pain. She tries to move, shooting pains in her body tell her not to. She had but one place, one refuge, and attempted to remember what happened.
Nothing. The memories refuse to come. No, there are no memories.
Then why does she hurt? What had happened.
She redoubles her efforts, and visualizes a man, she can’t see his face or his body clearly, but she knows this is a man.
She hates this man.
He places a hand on her head, and mutters words, a spell, a binding.
Even this memory flows through, into nothingness, like attempting to cup water with her hands.
She finds herself alone. No memories come, no matter how she attempts to bring them forth.
She is utterly alone.
But not for long.
She will be welcomed, by a new father.
His endless night will usher her into a new life.
Fear was no longer for her. She would be its source.
I set the hammer down. A delicate blade lay in front of me. A perfect size for a dagger, forged by hand, with love. A birthday gift. I picked up the handle and carefully integrated my new and improved shield generator.
Some waste of effort. She won't even be here to take it. Or use it.
I picked up the adhesive. I took the newly forged blade and set it into the handle, making sure it was properly set before letting go. Letting go.
Let go. I can't. Why did she have to go?
The adhesive set. I held up a dagger, carefully engraved with my traditional Brokers emblazoning. The blade, an acid etch with Leta's name and my initials. The last we'd ever be together.
She was just her age. A little older. She died with no one to save her.
I wasn't there to save her. I failed. Again.
I took the dagger and stabbed it into the table. And I wept. I didn't know what else to do. She was gone. I looked at my handiwork. I gazed over at the pressure chamber nearby, the work-in-progress that it was. And I felt so worthless. Alone.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Shadowstep. "Hey, Dad. It's been a while. You've barely eaten." I looked into her eyes. She stared right back, full of concern. A look I hadn't seen in years. It had always been pity and contempt. Anger. Resentment. Rightfully so at times. But for so long, no one really cared like she did.
I held her tight again, only letting go when I had found my center again. "I'll. I'll be right up, Shadowstep. Just finishing this up for Leta." I showed her the dagger. "...I think I'll... hmm." I picked up a carefully woven leather sheathe, dropping the dagger into it. "Here." I handed it to my daughter. "No point in letting it go to waste. Take it."
"Dad, it's okay, I know what it means-"
"No. Take it. Please." I pressed it into her chest. "It would mean a lot. I don't want to have it sit there, worthless and collecting dust. Please, Shadowstep. Please."
She took it, looking back at me with so many emotions. So much I couldn't read right now. She signed back, "Thank you. I'll take good care of it. Love you, Dad."
"I love you too. I'll take you to dinner again. Be right there." I stood up. Scared. Unsure. Loved.
"Shadowstep? I need you here for a moment." Gesserith's voice shook.
The young werewolf stepped out from her room. She could hear the tone of his voice that something wasn't quite right. "What happened? Did someone..." She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
"You... you remember Leta, right? I'm sure you saw her around the orphanage. A bit. Here and there." He kept holding himself together. "Haruko. Found her arm. And sword. I. She. How. Leta... LETAAAAA!" He broke, collapsing into his daughter, holding her tight, refusing to let anything else go tonight. "WHYYYYYY???"
Shadowstep simply held him back. Unable to do anything more, she just comforted her dad and joined in the mourning of such a close friend. "I'm where," she whispered.
The first thing I had learned about mortality was about anger. Wrath. Fury. The need for revenge.
I was ancient already. My interactions with mortals – true mortals, not planeswalkers – had been limited. But Sakai’s Saiba Futurists had found me, forced me into their technology, and experimented on me. They wanted to see if they could make kami mortal. To force us closer to the mortal realm and sever us from the spirit realm, from our home.
They did not succeed.
Koda and I found each other. He had enough strength left to use his technomancy. I had enough strength left to take over. He was so young, so hurt. So angry. We bonded, our fury towards our shared captors fueling our escape in our first fusion.
It was the first time I tasted blood. We tore a security guard’s throat out with our teeth and kept going. Back then, we didn’t know that Koda was half-oni. But we would have done it regardless.
I learned other things about mortality after we escaped and remained bonded. I met other mortals. I made friends. So did Koda.
And then I learned about how much it hurt to lose a friend.
The sword in my hand glowed obscenely in the darkness of the Longest Night. Under most circumstances, I would have retreated to the shadows that made up my being. But this was not most circumstances. Leta was dead, and it was my duty to avenge her.
I used limbs made of shadows to drag another demon from the sky and cut it open with the glowing sword. Light flashed each time, burning demons faster and leaving smoldering wounds in the split sides. Elsewhere in the city, Koda was fighting the incorporeal, the Pontifex had returned to give others a second wind, and the earth rumbled as Swift – and maybe others – turned the very land against these fiends.
I didn’t care about that.
I yanked another demon down and cut her open with a horizontal slash. For all of their boasting about eternal night and blood, they died just like everything else. The Fomori invaders had put up a bigger fight in the spirit realm than these cowards did. Even still, they had made the mistake of taking my friend from me.
