Captain Lannery Storm stood on the deck of the Gallant Angel with her arms crossed. She had a cutlass on each hip and had made an initial attempt to brush her hair, though she had quickly given up on that front in favor of just tying it back.
Behind her was the Omenpath back to the Stormwreck Sea. Somewhere on that side, Andres and Cristomo were working on the last bits of paperwork for Andres to formally return to Torrezon and for him and Cristomo to be legally married by the Church of Dusk so that their child wouldn’t be born a bastard. Somewhere else, her half-brother and half-sister, Marciano and Evereth, were setting up protections to keep the Betrayer from sinking his fingers into Luneau. And in a third place, her cousin and her grandmother were keeping Jagged Teeth Island in line.
But in front of her, on this side of the Omenpath, was the towering metropolis of Towashi.
The elderly rat man Captain Storm was meant to meet stood at the dock with his hands folded behind his back. Gathered around him were five kids: two nezumi, two kitsune, and an ogre. Both nezumi and one of the kitsune were just seven years old, followed by the other kitsune at eight, and finally the ogre at nine. Children. Orphans. Just like Storm herself.
Storm jumped down off of her ship as soon as the gangplank was lowered. “Hey, Mister Silentsign,” she said, trying to sign as quickly as she spoke. Nezumi sign language was a little difficult for her, but she had been watching videos about it on her communicator and heckling a few people she knew used it. “Everyone ready to go?”
The nezumi signed back. “They’re ready. I’ll be coming with you to ensure that they settle in, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated. It was what the old man had done the previous times that the kids went to Jagged Teeth Island to meet their potential parents. “Want me to stop anywhere so you can jump in to fight a fish?”
Silentsign’s left ear twitched in amusement. “Perhaps on the return trip.”
“Sounds good, old man.” That was, of course, said with the highest respect. Like pirates, Reckoners rarely made it to their seventies. Storm turned back to the kids. “Alright, let’s get on the ship! Any of you who makes Adrian tell stories about Durron gets the dragon’s share of candy before we make it to shore again!”
Storm hated returning to Jagged Teeth Island. It felt like everything she was supposed to want, and it just made her feel bad that she didn’t want it. Thankfully, she wasn’t here for an extended visit, because she would rather eat her own legs than listen to her grandmother talk at length about the cultural benefits of settling down again. She had gotten enough of something vaguely adjacent to that while dealing with Andres and Cristomo’s entire everything lately, when they weren’t trying to put a new hole in the wall of their cabin.
Honestly, she was about ready to find an extraplanar nunnery just to avoid all of it.
She kicked the gangplank down to the dock and slid down it just to show off, which turned into a short jog at the end. Her crew started scrambling to unload things, while Silentsign bid the orphans goodbye so that they could join their new families here. Storm recognized most of the people living on this island, of course, but her gaze drifted past the crowd to try to find two women in particular.
Mariah Storm stood like a solid pillar of stone with her shoulders squared. She was the head of the island’s trader’s guild. At a glance, she and Storm looked like sisters rather than cousins: same brown hair, same sun-crisped tan, same squared shoulders and commanding gait. Storm considered that to be because of the good genes from the sides of their family that they shared. The difference was, as always, in the details: Mariah bore green eyes rather than the brown that Storm shared with her half-brother and half-sister, and Mariah was a powerful geomancer like their grandmother while Storm had...nearly nothing.
And standing beside her was Tetsuko Umezawa, a Dominarian woman with black hair and a shaved undercut that Storm honestly was pretty jealous of. Even though Tetsuko now wore the same clothing as everyone else on the island, she carried a weapon she called a jitte rather than go without one. She was probably closer to Storm’s age than to Mariah’s, but Storm never bothered to ask.
Storm counted to three, then pivoted in time to catch an orc girl flinging herself at her legs. The child was probably eight or nine years old, but Storm couldn’t remember. Her black hair was braided carefully and laid over her shoulder; probably Tetsuko’s work. One of the women had obviously convinced her to wash up so her green skin wasn’t covered in dirt and sand like it usually was. “Heya, Dolly,” Storm greeted, hefting the girl into her arms. “You’ve gotten bigger!”
Dolly giggled. “Hi Auntie Lannie! Did you bring my new brother?”
“Patience, Dolly,” Mariah reminded her as she and Tetsuko crossed the dock to join Storm. It wassounfair of her to be taller than Storm. “Let them have time to get their things together first.”
“But I wanna see him again!” The orc’s cheeks puffed up as she pouted.
“Hey now, cannonball, don’t argue with your momma,” Storm laughed as she set Dolly back down on her feet. “He’s on his way.”
The other kids who had been adopted – the nezumi twins by an older human couple, Maple-Paw by a goblin family unit that had already taken in a bunch of other orphans of varying species, and Flower-Nose by a younger orc man and his siren spouse – made their way down the docks and to their new families. Finally, Takuroshi made his way down the gangplank. He was fairly tall despite being somewhere around Dolly’s age, and Silentsign had warned Mariah and Tetsuko at length that ogres never stopped growing, though the speed at which they did would slow down in time. Storm was just glad that they had gotten him moved to the island before he outgrew her ship.
The ogre boy had short beige fur, which made him look almost bald. His ears were pointed and pinned back a bit when he saw the crowd, like he had during previous trips to this island. But he carried his own luggage toward Mariah and Tetsuko and Dolly.
Dolly darted forward. “Hi Takuroshi!” she chirped. “You get to live here now! Wanna come see your room?”
Takuroshi hesitated and looked up at Mariah, who nodded encouragingly. “O-okay,” he agreed, letting Dolly grab his hand and drag him off.
Storm snorted once the kids were out of earshot. “Either she’s going to pull him out of his shell, or they’re going to be the most dynamic duo on this island.”
“Or both,” Tetsuko agreed. “So, any chance we can convince you to stay for dinner and update us on the Storm Fleet?”
Storm glanced back at her ship. Silentsign was signing rather aggressively to Avarett about something to do with bones, Marian was cursing a storm over her maps, and Udolf had already vaulted off of the ship in order to get their food stores replenished.
She turned back to her cousin and her cousin’s partner. She offered them a grin that felt more forced than it looked. “Yeah, absolutely.”
"So. Reorganization is done, Andreas is gone, we have an estimated count that puts us right under fifteen thousand without tapping into ressurectionist reserves, and we have one year to find a means of saving our sorry hides," Guitirre said a with a very tired sigh. He and the other High Marshals -- all of them now -- were gathered around a large map of the plane. Settlements were marked out across both continents, as well as a number of passages into the Core across the seas. A few islands had also been marked and labeled, declared Coalition territory by now.
"Most of the latter will be the job of the crown and clergy, Celino," said Sarria. The large man had his arms crossed as he glowered down at the map.
"We'll be having to send soldiery on with them. I'd rather they be at least in some part representing the Legion. We need to make good on our aims to be better and less bloodthirsty than we were, after all," Guitirre said with a wave of his hand. "We will also be needing to reach out to the Coalition and get into more serious talks with them. They've been upholding their end, we need to uphold ours."
Silence followed his words, as well as a few uneasy exchanged glances. Guitirre looked between each of his fellow commanders, brows slightly raised.
"Has something changed?" he asked.
"We're not actually going to be ceding the oceans to them, are we?" asked Costanas. She sounded even more hollow and timid than she did when they met to talk strategy just a few weeks ago. Guitirre didn't blame her, Salinas -- no. Andreas -- had been her mentor and had been the one who argued for her elevation to the position. Her loss bit deep.
"Not the entirety of the oceans, lass. But we ought to seek out negotiations with them before they start thinking that way," Guitirre answered. At the mention of negotiations, the other commanders once more shared looks. Guitirre let out a deep sigh. "We made this mess decades ago, we have to clean it up. I don't get what the problem is."
"I am with Celino," said Vazante. Guitirre smiled and dipped his head to her in thanks. "The Saint came telling us that we had been wrong in our ways. I think we should be thinking about making steps towards righting some of our wrongs."
"And yet the Sun Empire will and does still seek full retribution," Arguel said gruffly. "Their Dawn Fleet is still being built."
"So, let us treating with the Coalition be the first step in showing them, too, that we have no more intentions of messing with them," Guitirre said simply. "No?"
"It will leave us exposed," Sarria said with a small grunt. "Vulnerable to our enemies."
"So do we want peace or endless war?" Guitirre asked suddenly. "Because the last that I knew, we were supposed to make sacrifices mean something."
A sneer came across Sarria's face. "Are you implying we have bled for nothing, Celino?"
"If we're just going to be pissing lives into the wind, then yes, Sarria!" Guitirre said, practically shouting. "If you lot want to be focused on nothing but how potential enemies will stay enemies, then that is all we are going to be doing!" An uneasy quiet followed.
"That is low." Arguel's eyes were narrowed.
"It is the damned truth." Guitirre met his gaze. "I just had one of my own Marshals grind himself into practically naught but dust to ensure the pontifex was here and that we would see the dawn. He's recovering, bless the Saint," he noticed Vazante let out a relieved sigh, "but he is expected to be out at least until spring. I never want to put anyone through that again."
"Sacrifices have to be made, Celino. You're far from the only one who's lost," Arguel said. "It is disrespectful to Andreas and to Johana to imply as such."
"I am not implying as such, I am trying to make a damned point," Guitirre growled, bumping his fist on the table. Aster stirred at his feet at the noise.
"Which is?"
"We're supposed to be fighting for a time where we do not have to do nothing but spend lives in endless war. Where we can lay down our weapons and live, damn it. Our sacrifice upon taking the Rite of Redemption was meant so that when we sacrifice ourselves, others do not have to follow. The Saint said it herself -- we were never meant to be conquerors. She was horrified by what we had done in her memory in honor. So why don't we start actually honoring her and what she's supposed to be representing instead of doing nothing but sharpening weapons and assuming everyone's an enemy!"
Another silence. Vazante inclined her head.
"I am still with you, Celino," she said. "I agree with him. Especially with our numbers being cut down as brutally as they have been, we ought to be going to the negotiating table."
"I will deal with the Coalition," Guitirre said, making a dismissive wave before anyone else could cut in. "I have a decent enough rapport with two of the captains there. I also have been given some knowledge about the Storm Fleet that will make for a good chip in our favor."
"They've been taking in some of our own over the past few years," he said, then raised a finger. "That knowledge will not leave this room until we have the Coalition at the table. I do also wish to make the argument about finding absolution and clemency for those who had no other choice but death when it comes to joining."
"Celino..." Sarria pinched the bridge of his nose.
"A case-by-case basis, obviously," Guitirre said with an eyeroll. "But for those willing to try, I say we take them. It will be another point in our favor."
A few looks were exchanged. "Those will be discussed later. If you think you can speak with the Coalition, then... I suppose you should try," Costanas said hesitantly.
"Thank you. Arguel? Sarria?" Guitirre asked, looking to the other High Marshals. Both exchanged looks.
"If they want absolution, they'll have to work for it," Arguel growled. "That or have a damn good reason for being turncoats."
"So long as the option is open, that is what I care most about," Guitirre said, nodding. "Bitores?"
Sarria let out a deep, grumbling sigh. "Fine. We'll talk with pirates and see about this whole... forgiveness thing. But this will also have to go over with the clergy, Celino."
"I know it will. And I will handle that, thank you," Guitirre said, pushing himself from his seat. "Well. I would stick around, but I am expected home. I haven't been able to see my family in some time, and I have a new great-grandchild to welcome into the family." He whistled and Aster got up and took her place at his side.
"All of my Marshals and the few Champions under my command have been given their orders." Guitirre retrieved his hat where it was hanging, and carefully put on his overcoat, fastening it into place. "If I am absolutely required, I will still be within reach -- Catarina knows how to reach me fastest -- and I will inform you of my whereabouts if I intend to be elsewhere for an extended period. However, I am going to be gone for a month."
"A month?" Sarria repeated, eyes wide.
"A month. And when I return, I advise we each take a month for ourselves. It'll help us reset and get our heads back on our shoulders." He readjusted his hat. "You should be up next, Arguel."
Arguel scowled at him. Guitirre gave him a smile.
"I have already made arrangements for my absence. And I will still be working, technically. I will be reaching out to the Coalition on the behalf of us all. And I will indeed be there for Andreas' interment," he said. "Catarina, I know you'll be on your way to visiting Arturo, give him my best when you see him and tell him I'm sorry. I'll be finding a more proper way to apologize in time."
"I'm sure he understands, Celino. But I'll pass along the message," Catarina said with a small smile.
"Good luck to the rest of you." Guitirre then whistled for Aster to start following him, and he made his way out of the war room to where his things were already being put into a carriage to bring him home.
---
Silence stretched among the other High Marshals. Sarria broke it with a deep, grumbling sigh.
"He sounds insane," he muttered. Arguel snorted.
"When has he not?" he asked. "Bringing the Coalition to the table..."
"The queen has been interested in peace," Costanas pointed out. "He might not be completely mad."
"I am not going to let us expose our flanks to them," Arguel sneered. "He can chase after the pirates all he wants. I'm not letting down our guard."
"Surely you're not about to propose an offensive," Vazante said, crossing her arms.
"No. But I am also not going to relent. We're just keeping up our guard. And if Guitirre has a problem with it, he can come tell it to my face himself," Arguel answered with a sharp look. He looked back at the map to the plane. "Let's start speaking with the clergy and see what the pontifex wishes for us. Then we'll start properly preparing."
No, that word wasn't enough. This was everblack. The things voids were formed from.
It was open yet suffocating. It was endless yet felt too close, to tight, too small.
There was no ground to walk upon. No walls to touch.
There was nothing.
Until, feeling a weight in one hand, you make something.
---
Another clash of a blade ringing off armor. Another slide of boots on slush on stone.
They had been fighting for hours. The ebb and flow of the battle around them sometimes forced them apart, but they always returned to match blades soon after.
One fought with a grin on her face and with practically reckless abandon. The other fought with measured precision in each blow.
"As dreadfully serious as always, Andreas," the Antifex laughed as her sword rang on the shield of the other. "What, you can't enjoy this?"
"I will take no enjoyment in this, Vona," the High Marshal replied, shoving her back and following with a swing.
Vona snorted. "Too bad for you. I am enjoying every second." She let the blade ride across her armor, letting her get in close enough to batter her shield and find an opening to stab her sword into. Salinas hissed and smashed the champion's face with the edge of her shield as she disengaged, feeling a chnk and watching Vona recoil.
"Cheap trick," she said, black ichor trailing from the wound. The High Marshal's own nose wrinkled, even as the wound began reknitting itself.
Her regeneration was coming from the blood around them. Salinas had noticed it the first time she had scored a hit across her wings, slicing one of them nearly in half. There was hardly a sign of the damage left behind.
Salinas, on the other hand, had no such crutch. The glorifiers helped where they could -- from a distance, of course -- but she was still bleeding.
Vona knew it. She knew it. Only one would be walking away.
---
Light.
You see light.
You feel light. Warmth.
You move towards it. Somehow, you don't know how. It doesn't matter.
You see someone there, out on the edge of your perceptions. You know her. The glow is coming from her.
She's talking to someone. You don't...
... recognize him. You can't understand what they are saying at first.
Until, of course, you speak.
"My Saint?"
The words surprise you, as does your voice. They sound clear and crisp. A contrast to the dark, suffocating and thick.
Her eyes turn toward you. They are as bright as the sunset. His eyes do too. In them, you see the silver of moonlight.
"You've brought another," he says, looking you up and down. "I don't recognize you."
"I did not expect to be followed," she says. You sense something behind her words. They are tense. Annoyance? Disappointment? Sorrow?
"My deepest apologies." You dip your head and bow, surprised you still have your body about you. You can hardly feel it.
You are more surprised to see your old vestments.
"Well, I do not mind speaking with an audience," the moonlit man says. He looks back to the Saint. "Where were we? Bargaining, yes?"
Bargaining?
"I would not call it bargaining considering we hold the upper hand." There is a cold fury in her eyes.
Laughter from the other. An easy smile on his face. He has fangs. "Do you now?"
She looks to you, looking down to a point at your side. "I do now."
You look down. The weight is a spear.
You nearly blind yourself looking at the concentrated power of an interplanar sun.
---
"Tighten up!" Guitirre shouts. His skymarchers closed ranks around him, preparing for another wing of demons.
That's what they had taken to calling them. Wings. Or flocks. Whichever.
They caught them and deterred them or destroyed them outright. Most of the demons were meeting their blades and blows now that a coordinated effort to better protect the skies was being made. Guitirre didn't blame Sarria or Vazante for not taking control there -- the only other versed enough in their particular arrangements and formations was Salinas or Arguel, and they were south.
But he was here now. He could give them more of a fighting chance.
Aster was still below, growling and barking but not doing much else. She was growing tired. He didn't blame her, they were fighting for quite some time now.
How long until dawn? Would they see it?
He ran a traitor through with the rapier he held in hand, his dancing blade catching a spiked chain and allowing its wielder to be taken out by other soldiers. Blood coated him, as it did all others fighting close to him. Some his own, some not.
Light of dusk, he was growing tired. All of them were. He wondered if Arturo would even be able to stand upright long enough to fight whatever was attacking his home.
The demons never tired. But they knew that all of them, even those with the gift, did. His swings were getting sloppy. Skymarchers were falling out of formation without him shouting to keep them in line. Each pass of a deathdrinker or a bloodletter left him more and more drained.
Other varieties of demons were filling the air with smoke and ash. It gave the illusion of fighting in a burning grave. Perhaps they were.
He flew back to dodge a thick, cleaving thing -- he could barely tell what the weapon was -- following through by stabbing his assailant through the head. His weapon had gotten stuck in it, and so he had to follow the body down as he pried it free, grunting when a demon tackled him into the side of the wall as he flew back up. He bashed them with his forehead, smashing them in the face with the basket of his weapon, then kicked the body away.
Others had spotted him and would be coming to give him a hard time. The traitors remembered him. The demons just saw an easy snack.
They wouldn't be getting one.
---
"That? You think you have leverage with it?" the moonlit man chuckles.
You look back at him, and you blink away the light. Your Saint speaks again, her voice devoid of the mirth of the man.
"It can kill."
"Can it now?" he asks. He now looks at you. "You can kill with it?"
"I already have."
"Ah, that priestess, yes?"
You do not know how he knows that. He must read the confusion on your face.
"You don't quite know what this is, do you?" he says, voice soft. "She's never explained. Nor have I."
"Tarrian-"
"Elenda," the moonlit man says, dipping his chin and raising his brow. You blink in confusion. You know that name.
"You're-"
"Yes, Venerable Tarrian," he says, elaborately bowing. "The very same one that you and yours saw fit to censor."
"I do not understand." You feel your brows furrow together.
"Because Elenda never saw fit to tell you how she obtained the gift," Tarrian said with a sigh. He gestures to the darkness around you. "Allow me, then, to fill in that gap. You stand now at the literal bounds between life and death, my friend."
You follow his hand, looking beyond your Saint, beyond her... her enigmatic demeanor, into the everblack.
And then... you see. You see the balance, two scales set even to each other, and you realize that you are standing on the fulcrum.
"How-"
"Mavren," your Saint says to you. You feel your voice die in your throat. Tarrian laughs.
"Ah, let him speak. Let him learn. He deserves to know some things, no? Especially since we are trying to bargain. In fact, I won't speak another word until he does," he says, turning those silver eyes to your Saint's own gold.
You look to her for permission, bowing your head in deference. She is your Saint. Your sun. Your guiding light. You've dedicated everything to her.
She stares at Tarrian for a long moment, then finally turns those eyes to you.
"Very well. Ask your questions."
You give a bow, extending your free hand. A symbolic gesture.
You open your mouth to speak your stifled question.
---
Salinas is falling.
She was shoved from the wall after she parried and left herself too unbalanced.
She lands, heavy, on a pile of ice-covered bodies. She groans as she feels her ribs crack from the weight and strain. Vona laughs, leaping over the edge, landing lightly on her feet nearby.
"Come on. On your feet!" she says, grinning. The High Marshal growls at her, pushing herself off, muttering a small prayer for the paladin she had crushed. At least they were already gone.
She gets back into a defensive stance. She feels a spear of rib somewhere it shouldn't be, and her vision was fuzzed. Vona flies at her.
---
"Now that that is out of the way..." Tarrian places his hands on his sides. You feel confused. Uncertain. Even with this knowledge, you--
"Let's talk practically, yes?" he smiles, and his smile reminds you uncomfortably of someone else. The silvered eyes, the strange insincerity of the smile itself...
"You want Torrezon. That is not happening."
"Mhm."
"We can kill him."
"So you boldly claim," Tarrian says with a sigh. "So many have, you know. I heard them." He lifts his chin in one direction. "Many champions who despise him still."
You notice your Saint tense slightly. "This is different."
"Show me," Tarrian says with that unnerving grin. Those eyes turn back to you, and the smile widens slightly. "Go on."
You do not know what to do.
Except... you do. Somehow. And you're doing it. The weight, it is a staff -- a spear -- something not forged of your home, yet familiar as though it were. Your hand is curled around raw, concentrated sunlight.
You point it towards Tarrian. You feel its warmth. But you feel other things wrapped inside of it too.
Rage. Hope. Comfort. Acceptance. Wanderlust.
Family. Friends. A sense of belonging, of community. Home.
You realize you are holding more than just sunlight. You are holding belief itself, distilled into this one weapon.
You pull back your arm.
"Wait!" he says suddenly. Hands up, knees bent, smile wide. "Don't shoot the messenger, right?"
"Will you listen, then?" your Saint asks. Tarrian looks between the weapon in your hands, then your face, then your Saint. The smile turns up slightly.
"I am listening, Elenda. Let us discuss terms."
---
He rushes through the tall towering spires of the Cathedral of Dusk, cold wind biting at his face as he flies. He has a number of demons on his tail and they've been painfully agile. Guitirre dips lower to avoid something long and spiked whipping past. The diversion had been necessary, he reminded himself.
That squire shouldn't have been there.
And now he was being chased through the city by a pack of hungry beasts. He's faster and more agile than most of them -- the funestus and bloodletters had to peel off or be picked off -- but there were plenty of smaller ones that were able to keep up with him annoyingly well.
He wove himself through a tight space between a steeple and a wall when his eyes caught something; a glorifier was being hunted. Guitirre didn't spare a glance at the demons tailing him before diving down, hard and fast, right into its back, smashing it like overripe fruit against the cobbles. He disentangled himself from the corpse and the mess, wincing as he felt something in his shoulder feel slightly out of place. He looked up at the bastards that were following him, preparing to have a go at them, before he realized they had redirected and flew off elsewhere. He let out a sigh, praying they wouldn't be too much trouble for the other defenders.
"Are you alright, lad?" he asked the glorifier. The cleric nodded, looking tired and shaken.
"I am, sir. Thank you." He looked at the High Marshal's shoulder. "Allow me."
"You have others-"
"You saved my life, sir," the glorifier said with some measure of finality. "It is the least I can do."
Guitirre allowed himself a smile. "Very well, little preacher. Do what you must."
---
"You are not in a position to be demanding much," Tarrian was saying. He kept looking between you and your Saint. "While that thing could most certainly unmake me, I still doubt it would unmake him."
"It does not have to. Ensuring he is kept in a state of perpetual agony also works for our purposes," your Saint says. She says it with such ease that it makes you glad you are not the subject of her words.
"And those purposes are...?" Tarrian makes a circular motion with one hand.
"Containment if we cannot have him destroyed outright," your Saint says, crossing her arms. You realize that she is still adorned the very same way as she had been before, yet you are different. Your mind tries to recall Tarrian's explanation of this place, but it comes up...
... fuzzy. Blank. And yet he said it only-
"Right, yes. Containment," he's saying. He's nodding as though it's obvious. "You think this can contain him?"
There's a pause. A hesitation. You can feel it, as can he. He laughs.
"It is a start," your Saint says, looking at the weapon. That is what it is now, not just a simple spear. That word doesn't feel good enough to you.
"A start is all we need," you hear yourself saying. Now you have both of their attention, and you feel the supremely uncomfortable sensation of drowning.
"He will break free of any prison you devise for him now. He knows of them already. Again, he is still a god. And you, my dear friends, are close, but not quite there." Tarrian has that strange grin on his face. Your skin crawls, but you refuse to show it.
"Then we will construct a new one." There is a look of calm determination in the way your Saint holds herself.
"While he is at your gates?" Tarrian's brows raise. His hands are steepled together.
"You said this was bargaining," you hear yourself say. "I think this is becoming more of a negotiation."
"Hmm..." Tarrian rubs his chin. There is a short beard there. His silver eyes turn away, into the darkness before he turns back again. The smile is back. "Very well. You want to stall for time then, yes? Cobble something together for him?"
"If that is what we must do to get him off our throats for the time being," your Saint replies cooly.
Tarrian smiles at her. It scares you how sincere it seems this time.
"What will you give for that time?"
---
Salinas is in pain. Vona has been able to score more and more hits and grazes, just enough to go from annoying to a worry. She still feels her broken ribs keenly, and she had to replace her weapon twice now in the fight.
Vona was toying with her. She was delighting in this. It was a challenge rather than just being a slaughter.
But Salinas knew that she was starting to grow bored, and she was never more dangerous than when she was bored. Her first set of servants were evidence enough of that.
After all, that's why she was sent off to Ixalan. To get her away from here.
Even as the High Marshal tired, even as she parried and twisted just out of reach of lethal strikes, even as she could wound her and watch those wounds reknit and feel some level of despair, she kept flicking her eyes upward. She thought it was bloodloss or something being cut deep inside of her that was making her dizzy enough to hallucinate.
Vona started to notice. She growled and closed the distance between the two, now fighting where merchant's stalls were usually set.
"What are you looking at? Hm? Are you expecting some divine savior to reach down and pluck you from this?" she asked. Her voice was roughened. She was tiring too, even if she was doing a better job at not showing it as easily.
"I don't need a divine savior, Vona. I just need to kill you," Salinas answered, grimacing as she raised her shield to block another strike. Vona growled again, deciding to look up herself. Her expression changed, then. Salinas realized she hadn't been hallucinating.
The sky was growing lighter.
Dawn was coming.
Salinas had her shield up and ready, and tried to take advantage of the distraction. It was a risky gambit, but it was her only good opening. She thrusted her sword forward, going right for the throat, but Vona was faster, slipping right inside her guard and stabbing her own sword right through her body, from under one arm up and through her collarbone on the other side. Salinas let out a choked grunt, blood already welling around the blade. Her grip slackened.
"Even if that light is coming," Vona hissed. "You will not be there to see it."
"Then I'll drag you into the abyss with me," Salinas said. With her fading strength, she raised her sword and stabbed down.
---
You feel fear. Horror. Sorrow.
"My Saint," you say, your voice breaking. "You can't-"
"If this is what must be done, then so be it," she says. There is that cool determination about her. You find yourself positively stunned. The grin on Tarrian is even more genuine.
"Very well. I think he will be happy with these terms." He claps his hands together. "One year. No battles between now and then. You will be able to lick your wounds and scramble for a solution before we return. But!" He grinned wider. "Remember, we will be doing the very same."
"We will be ready," your Saint says.
"Oh, as will we." Tarrian nods. "Do not fret, little one," he says, addressing you directly now. "All is not yet lost. Take what time you have and use it wisely and well."
He gives a wave, and you feel yourself falling, and falling, until--
---
Guitirre watches the sky growing paler. He finds himself incredulous at it. There's already cheering and screams of the horrid damned to join them.
And then he spots something he wasn't expecting to see; Pontifex Fein, falling from the darkness. Guitirre quickly thanks the glorifier who had been tending to him before he immediately leaps into the air in order to intercept him.
He catches him before he smashes onto the hard stone below, bringing him to the ground carefully.
"Pontifex Fein?" he asks. The body stirs. The eyes blink open.
And then, Guitirre sees nothing but light.
---
When dawn finally graces the continent of Torrezon, it illuminates the sheer amount of damage and horror left behind. Bodies of traitors remain while the true-blooded demon and children of Aclazotz are slowly unmade in the cleansing light.
Soldiers and warriors all over the continent and even in its adjacent seas rejoice at the sight of the sunrise. Some even begin to dance or peel off their armor, not even caring for the frozen winds that accompany it.
The Darkest Night had passed. The days ahead meant more sunlight, more daytime, that the depths of winter were behind them. Now was the time for growth, for recuperation. For the naming of a new Venerable, who would also lead the Church of Dusk as pontifex.
It was hardly unheard of. A few of the past predecessors had been canonized in their lifetimes before they passed on. An address would be made at midday, but for now, his first edict upon his return was simple; "Let us mend our wounds and clean what we can."
---
And so, they did. Cardinal Theodors had called for the killing of all traitors left behind, but some had begged for clemency. Pontifex Fein was willing to grant it conditionally, and so they were instead all bound and chained for later interrogation. The pontifex had informed the cardinal that he would like a private word, but only after other matters were taken care of.
---
Guitirre met with the other High Marshals to do head counts on who was left and help organize the wounded and walking. Aster was remaining at his side, though she was whining and begging for attention and food. Sarria had brought a bit of dried meat for her to quell her, cooing about how adorable she was. Guitirre and Vazante exchanged very amused looks, considering this was a man who usually hated seeing mastiffs in the barracks.
"I thought they were dirty, slobbering little beasts?" Guitirre asked with a smile on his face.
"They are," Sarria said gruffly. The big man pushed himself up off the ground and gave Aster a good pat on the behind.
"Right." Guitirre nodded as Vazante snickered. Sarria glowered at them.
"This one happens to be very endearing."
"Whatever you say, Bitores."
"Oh, please, your husband is the one who actually likes the mutts, Catarina," Sarria said with a snort. There was still a glimmer of amusement in his eye, and the three exhausted commanders shared a small laugh.
Once things were a bit more stabilized, he'd go onto the network and see how the Storm Fleet and the rest of his Coalition allies had fared.
And, hopefully, he'd be able to hear from Arturo.
---
Lazaro nearly wept with relief at the coming dawn. He sagged against the stones of the shelter his brother had made. Danjikisei had poked its head out to watch the sunrise, or what little of it the kami could see from the shelter.
"I t . . . i s. . . " it said. It tilted its head. ". . . n i c e . . ." it landed on. Lazaro nodded.
"Nice," he agreed. "Relieving." He then looked to his brother, his sons, and his father -- fathers, really -- and came forward to bring them all into an embrace.
---
Austello held.
Cardinal Sirocco was covered in filth and blood by the time it came, but by the blood of the Venerables, it came.
The Antifex had fled. There were Legionnaires who were calling for her to be followed, to properly rout her, but High Marshal Arguel had told them to pull back. Overextending would get more of them killed. They needed to assess damages.
And so, they did. The older cardinal helped direct the clergy where she could, and let the secret out that Pontifex Fein had indeed returned, and should be in Alta Torrezon.
"By the color of the sky, I think he made it," she said. The smile she wore faded when it was revealed who one of the casualties of the siege was.
The cardinal rushed to where the body was found, kneeling next to it and letting out an anguished cry. Word was spreading throughout the ranks of defenders like wildfire. High Marshal Andreas Salinas was dead.
But there was something strange about the body. It was the first thing Arguel noticed when he approached.
Vona left her sword behind.
---
History will remember this as many things. The Darkest Night, the Longest Night, the Darkest Hour, all manner of things are already passing through the mouths of the humans and vampires alike. But all that I wish to be remembered was that this was the night where hope prevailed.
I will not be so naive to say we won. This victory is but a temporary one. A greater battle and greater war will follow, but for now, we have earned a reprieve. Time to rejoice, to heal, to try and clean and prepare ourselves for the true victory to follow.
Especially knowing what will follow that victory. I fear for what may follow afterwards.
But, this morning, I do not let such fears darken my thoughts. Instead, I will mourn for those we lost, and celebrate those who are still with us. This will be a fragile time for us all. Many great lessons will need to be learned. And they will be. But for now, I think we've all deserved a rest.
You set down the pen, leaning back in your chair. It creaks a little under the weight. You still wear the chiton you were given during your journeying, your wings folded a bit awkwardly, but comfortably enough. New and more fitting attire would be commissioned, but for now, it would do.
Your mind drifts to Dhazdoro, Menea, and Malkonia. Dhazdoro was speaking with the Saint, and Menea and Malkonia were helping the wounded. You were going to pay them a visit and thank them for their aid and tell them you are even more in their debt.
A smile crosses your face, even if you know that statement is not entirely true.
But then, a knock. "Come in," you say.
It is a young acolyte. Newly blooded, more than likely.
"I am sorry for disturbing you, Venerable-"
"Pontifex still works," you gently correct. "And all other monikers thereof. I do not wish to assume that title just yet."
"Right, yes, my apologies, Pontifex," the acolyte says, dipping his head. "Cardinal Ayere is ready to meet with you when you are."
Your lips draw into a line. You drum your fingers on the desk. There is a stack of papers next to them, as well as a small, slim volume.
You nod. You ponder for a moment, then look back at the acolyte.
"I think I am ready for him now."
The acolyte nods, and ducks out of the door. A few moments later, it opens, and the cardinal walks in, bowing his head in deference.
"Pontifiex Fein," he says, wearing that smile you find so familiar now. His silvered eyes are slightly narrowed. Cautious. Afraid.
"Cardinal Ayere," you say, lacing your fingers together. "There is much to discuss."
"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
The demon let out a snarling hiss, ready to crush the old pirate before it felt something sharp jabbing through it. It turned its head just in time to get it smashed right off its shoulders, the rest of its infernal form going limp.
All of the children of Aclazotz screeched as more of the living dead joined the fighting, though many still dove for the living rather than the dead. They were hungry, and they were promised that they could feed.
And so they would. Whether it be on blood or bodies or terror, they would feed. The appearance of these dead would not deter them, even if the more salient and sapient among them were wondering at how they were even rising. Their god was supposed to be the commander of the dead, and this was supposed to be their night.
Far off, closer to the shores, the demons were beginning to flock in greater strength. Many were beginning to press in from the waves, seeking more bodies, more blood, more food elsewhere. The Legion and their vessels, as few as they were, did their best to hold the line, but they were not infinite, and they were not many.
Even by the brief light of a second sun on the wave-shorn horizon, the light of day was still a ways away. And many were beginning to doubt that they would ever see it.
The silence reigned over the ship. Over Moena`s toughts, as he fell on his back to the deck. With the strange skeleton, wielding the sword with elegance, observing him.
For mere seconds, he saw so clearly the forces that the feared and respected. The afterlife and their echoes. For seconds, he saw an glimpse of an familiar soul.
A face, of golden teeth and skin bathed by sea salt. Of black hair, long cut by his inexpert hands. Even now, without his golden armour and flesh. Broenze, had a feeling of safety. He was, after many years, once again the young student, paying attention to his elder.
The skeleton, wearing nothing but ragged pants, hid his sword upon his chest-bones. An bony hand, blanked of wealth, was extended towards the living captain.
"Broenze." It whispered from the skull. "Don`t stay down looking like an suprised frog. The Moenas must stand proud, when doubts invade the crew." That proud tone, that mix of self-grandiose with paternal affectionat.
"Avo?" Broenze tongue spoke, spooking an word of his birth language.
"Same in spirit." Even without tongue or face, a warmth accompanies his words. "Merda, Broenze. These monsters did quite a number on you." The skeleton looked back at the bodies of the ship. With a sad tone, he shared, "Alongside the crew."
"How. . . Why did you come here? Did the grim captain send you?" When Broenze spoke the name, the waters started to bubble.
The skeleton laughed. "Ohohoho. Indeed. And I didn`t come alone."
The veteran of the free cities. Diplomats of the two empires of Ixalan. She who brokered land for the sea pirates. She, who united the fleets under one banner.
The glint of gold under the cape, his golden jewels shining against the sky blue clothes, showcased her authority.
Captain Brass and the Scourge, arrived at the ships of the Parsecs. with the mens wearing ropes, jumping at the vampires and demons, with the stregnth of tens orcs.
The veteran raised her fist, as ship`s magic surged across all the pirates loyal to her. Agile, faster, stonger, would they be. The weakest of sailors, now able to compete against the crazed vampires.
"Captains!!! Movement on the waters," Warned a goblin to everyone.
"Oi, now what is this time?" Screamed Brass, as she dismembered an vampire`s leg. An sense of sea water invaded her nostril.
Against the fervents prayers, invaded an new song. An song of crude wishes, an song of brawls for riches, an song of freedom in dead, accompained by. . . accordions?!
The sailors of the ship stopped their fight, witnessing something pulled out from their folktales.
Vessels, bathed with clams and seaweed, rise from the deeps of the waters. An unnatural purple glow, shining against the darkness. An from it. . . .
"Ahoy!!! Vile fiend of Torrezon!! Consider this, the payback, for the spilled blood of the free cities!!!" An unnatural voice screamed across the air, as numerous crackles of bones emerguerd from the four thousand phantom ships. Before the demons knew, undreds of skeletons, of orc, humans, goblins, even of merfolks, emergued into the strife. Cutting, laughing, punching, biting. The undeads fell upon the heretics fleets, as musicians sung their accordions, guitars and violins from the ships.
Brass stood still, as the nearby vessel`s skeletons, rammed against their opponents. Ignoring them and the rest of sailors.
As the suprise fell, Brass cried. "WHAT DO WE WAIT FOR. LET`S FINISH THESE MOSQUITOES FOR ONCE. ATTACK!!!"
The cries of war, of the living and the dead, joined the chorus.
"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
An beutifull chorus of explosions and destruction, singed across the seas of Torrezon.
Parsec, Grim, Jade, Snakes, Sea-dogs, Birds of Plunders, Schools of Xootob, even a few Dires ships, roared their cannons across the waters against the demons and heretica`s fleets.
The Parsecs fleet, devastated the sieges boats with hurricanes and storms, ship`s bombs scurrying across the fleets, filled with valuable cosmiun. Many vampires perished in beutifull colours of purples.
The Grims ships, rammed against the ships, their sailors unfearfull to dead, as both flesh and bones battled with swords and guns against the desercrated goldens weaponry with blood of the monters.
A few hereticals fleet started to sink, thanks to the merfolks saboteurs who joined the Coalitions, eager to clean the world from the plague that its Aclazotz`s spawn.
Yet, it wont be a cake for the pirates. As the night felt, as the demons raised, they swarmed upon the supertitious soldiers. The bloodrinkers, making entire ships cry in pain and horror, as old wound re-opened with their presences. Those ships with magues possed an major resistance to the supernatural`s fiends, yet it was undeniable.
The demonis host of Aclazotz, were breaking their will.
Blood flowed freely across each and every vessel that the demons fell upon. The sowing of terror empowered some of the larger and more ancient beasts among them, traceries of light and sigils across their bodies acting as a vast network, linking and empowering them all.
Including, naturally, that of their distant patron, whose shadow was about to swallow the heartcity of distant Torrezon.
There were laughs and cries of happiness and glee from even the smallest and lowliest of fiends all the way to the top. They were seeing themselves grow fat and empowered as they flew, even as scores of them fell to the strange weaponry and tactics of the various fleets. Those who died did so with the smiles of zealots stretched wide across their fanged faces, knowing that they would be torn from the lands beyond and between to serve their master only moments after their demise.
Captain Sussana Livertaria, hit the deck, her wood-chop still clenched over ther teeths. An band of "imps" and one of the major demons decided to arrive uninvited to her own ship.
The major demon`s magic, tried to paralize her from pain. How horrid, for any young damsel, to felt as cut and bruises plagued her body. What a shame for the demons, than none of her crew were strangers to pain.
Sussana gritted her teeths, as her cutlass of cosmiun cut in three to the nearby imps. She wasnt stanger to pain, from the loving bites of harpy, to the punches of infants orcs. To the exotic feeling of the ixalani poison frogs, to the accidental lighting of Geronimo`s spells. Pain was a old friend, who decided to rudely visit thems during this triumphant night.
The senior captain reacted as the wind changed, as the imps tried to bleed her body with their natural weapons. Slash, cut and beheaded, fell the imps who dared to interrupt her dance with the wing.
As for her crew, her close circle of friends, explorers, researchers and scientist who dared to put their noses on nests of dinosaurs, who dared to close their ears to the lips of merfolks, to hear their spells. The weren`t stanger to pain.
The magues summoned lighting towards the major demons, as the muscles raised their anchor and hammer against the devil. Their aimed to dispeel all these vermins who dared to invade their loyal vessel. To survive long enough, to laugh off the scary and dumbfounded faces of the imps. That these senior, closer to the door of dead, weren`t in fear. They were extactic!!!
Another gunshot blew up the vampire`s grey matter. Five coins. Three shot blew to ashes the imps who were overhelming his goon, Salmon. Twenty coins.
Captain Broenze Moena, had a ridiculous pratcice when he was fighting. He counted the prize of every shot and cannon spitted by his ship. It relaxed him, it served as a promise. That he shall return to his office, an recount the toal coust of this assault.
He danced with his peg-leg, allowing his frame of cosmiun, to continue raising skeletons. The undead, those whitout flesh, where inmune to all the curses of the vampire.
He didnt dare to laugh, tought. He was on the deck of the ship, he needed to oversee the skeleton`s canooners. To direct their cannons towards the enemy ships, as his living mens fighted against the demonic host.
It wasnt an uphill road to vicory. Moena saw Medardos with bloddied knuckles and head, to the cercenations of an hereticals blade. Yet he didnt fell to the bloodloss. As Moena`s magic, held together his body.
The captain was straining his mana, controling the skeletons as the same time he hold together the wounded crewmembers.
Moena took deep breath, as the skeletan`s arms over his shoulders, protected him from rufians and heretics.
He had greatly overstimated his health. He wasn`t his granparent.
At least, dying amiss the blades of the Coalition and the coleric crys of vampires, would be an dead that his granfather would have considered, honorable.
The various forces of the Antifex and Aclazotz descended upon the fleets of the Coalition with a renewed fervor once their patron made it to the far-distant reaches of the heartcity. They laughed, they sang, they prayed loudly and openly, even as they were torn and cut apart by the various weapons and means of the Coalition.
More were torn from the skies, and more were reborn from them. It was a constant pulling and pushing, one way and then the next, over who would potentially win out.
The ranks of the demons thinned considerably after the first few hours of fighting. Enough so that Legion vessels could now be spotted among the Coalition ships, with grim-faced paladins cutting down their former peers alongside hundreds of humans, both those who were trained soldiery and those who were little more than deckhands.
The demons taunted as they struck and took from the fleets. You think you are the only ones who command the dead? How long do you think this shall last?
Your bones will make for good entertainment once we rule the world. How amusing and how apt it shall be!
You waste the potential of the cosmium you bring to bear. We shall show you its true power!
Moena`s coffin, waved alongside the turmoils of the war. Closer and closer, the sky darkeneds.
Broenze Moena was on helm. He was tired, his mana now wasted, and alongside it the skeletons of the ship fell, the sailors` wound taking their tool. The deck is now littered with bodies of his crew, his bloddied bodies being feasted by the demons. The captain refused to regconize their faces. An folly, when he could perfectly see his own coffin.
As the captain unfurled another gun, he felt stinking pain from his leg. Another imp was biting and dragging good leg. The captain cursed, as he kicked the imp with his peg-leg. The truffle make him fall upon his back,but at last, the peg-leg`s knife stabbed the imp rigth on the head.
You wasted all your breath, bones-sack. An rasped voice warned him. Another one of those horrible fiends, falling from ship`s mast, to the helm. An demon with an malformed bat-head, collar of bones and skull decorating his neck and arms. Holding an an skull of Moena`s sailors, skin hanging as peeled oranges, blood still gouging from eyes and neck.
The demon drinked it, intoxicated on the blood. You attempt at imitating my progenitor feast, is pitifull. You can only raise the deads, at the cost of your own breath? Sad
Broenze didn`t answer. He clenched his fist, seeking for all the miasma of dead. Maybe, he could save one last spell.
I can only stand in awe, at the sheer power of my siblings. Devouring and conquering all of torrezon. Bleeding your people, dry to the sea. Petty mortals, relegated to fishes of the sea. It laughed.
This is the power of the god of dead!! This is the might of Aclazotz. This is the night of his birth. This is the age, wich he will claim what its rightuflly it!! The demon grabbed the captain by the neck. The man strenght, waned by age and sorrow, were akin to the vain attempt of an fish escaping the hook.
See, as your breath exhaust. The other-side, the domain of Aclazotz. Your destiny alongside all your kin!! What do you see? What do you see, ignorant man? What do you witness!! The demon screams, as he chocke the mortal.
Broenze, still held the demon`s arms, observing frantically, that realm wich he witnessed once. That realm, buried on the ground.
This ship, bathed in gold and bones, always belonged to the Moena. Then noble house of the Free Cities, exiled whitout pride and honour, to the seas.
Aurum Moena, was the head of the family who experienced that injustice. Tought, he didnt depart in fear from his kingdom. He departed with an determined goal, to keep his family legacy. His treasures, his ship, his servants and serfs, his family. Many years had he spend of the sea, his blade scaring Torrezon`s far away from his new home, pushing and battling against his rivals pirates. His name prestige no longer held by his noble blood, but by fear and respect.
Long ago, have he died, on this same ship, in skirmish against the merfolks armed with jade. Satisfied was he with this dead, knowing an key answer. An fact of the world, wich this demon seem to have long ignored.
His soul didn`t res. Bound to the ship, his soul awakens with this disturbance. Up to the deck, he witness this insult to his family. The same torrezians, massacring his own mens. An horrible monsters, mocking and hummiliating his grandson!!
The demon will regret his question. His grip breaking, as a new cosmiuns knife lacerate his chest. As Broenze fall, glimpsing an newly raise skeleton, infused with an unnatural purple glow. This undead, wasn`t raised by the mortal, but by the anger of Aurum.
More and more, the creaking bones raise, grabbing cutlasses, axes and anchors. Rattling, as the skeletons raise, on their own. As the veil of the living and dead, close and close, thanks to the eternal night. Thinner become, the barrier among the livings and the deads.
Broenze, take an deep breath, while the demon watched him with eyes filled with resentment. Broeze, whispered his answer, to what he witnessed, from the other side.
"I see.. . . . . The wrathfull visages, of my mens. Behind thems, the wrath of all the Free Cities"
"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
An beutifull chorus of explosions and destruction, singed across the seas of Torrezon.
Parsec, Grim, Jade, Snakes, Sea-dogs, Birds of Plunders, Schools of Xootob, even a few Dires ships, roared their cannons across the waters against the demons and heretica`s fleets.
The Parsecs fleet, devastated the sieges boats with hurricanes and storms, ship`s bombs scurrying across the fleets, filled with valuable cosmiun. Many vampires perished in beutifull colours of purples.
The Grims ships, rammed against the ships, their sailors unfearfull to dead, as both flesh and bones battled with swords and guns against the desercrated goldens weaponry with blood of the monters.
A few hereticals fleet started to sink, thanks to the merfolks saboteurs who joined the Coalitions, eager to clean the world from the plague that its Aclazotz`s spawn.
Yet, it wont be a cake for the pirates. As the night felt, as the demons raised, they swarmed upon the supertitious soldiers. The bloodrinkers, making entire ships cry in pain and horror, as old wound re-opened with their presences. Those ships with magues possed an major resistance to the supernatural`s fiends, yet it was undeniable.
The demonis host of Aclazotz, were breaking their will.
Blood flowed freely across each and every vessel that the demons fell upon. The sowing of terror empowered some of the larger and more ancient beasts among them, traceries of light and sigils across their bodies acting as a vast network, linking and empowering them all.
Including, naturally, that of their distant patron, whose shadow was about to swallow the heartcity of distant Torrezon.
There were laughs and cries of happiness and glee from even the smallest and lowliest of fiends all the way to the top. They were seeing themselves grow fat and empowered as they flew, even as scores of them fell to the strange weaponry and tactics of the various fleets. Those who died did so with the smiles of zealots stretched wide across their fanged faces, knowing that they would be torn from the lands beyond and between to serve their master only moments after their demise.
Captain Sussana Livertaria, hit the deck, her wood-chop still clenched over ther teeths. An band of "imps" and one of the major demons decided to arrive uninvited to her own ship.
The major demon`s magic, tried to paralize her from pain. How horrid, for any young damsel, to felt as cut and bruises plagued her body. What a shame for the demons, than none of her crew were strangers to pain.
Sussana gritted her teeths, as her cutlass of cosmiun cut in three to the nearby imps. She wasnt stanger to pain, from the loving bites of harpy, to the punches of infants orcs. To the exotic feeling of the ixalani poison frogs, to the accidental lighting of Geronimo`s spells. Pain was a old friend, who decided to rudely visit thems during this triumphant night.
The senior captain reacted as the wind changed, as the imps tried to bleed her body with their natural weapons. Slash, cut and beheaded, fell the imps who dared to interrupt her dance with the wing.
As for her crew, her close circle of friends, explorers, researchers and scientist who dared to put their noses on nests of dinosaurs, who dared to close their ears to the lips of merfolks, to hear their spells. The weren`t stanger to pain.
The magues summoned lighting towards the major demons, as the muscles raised their anchor and hammer against the devil. Their aimed to dispeel all these vermins who dared to invade their loyal vessel. To survive long enough, to laugh off the scary and dumbfounded faces of the imps. That these senior, closer to the door of dead, weren`t in fear. They were extactic!!!
Another gunshot blew up the vampire`s grey matter. Five coins. Three shot blew to ashes the imps who were overhelming his goon, Salmon. Twenty coins.
Captain Broenze Moena, had a ridiculous pratcice when he was fighting. He counted the prize of every shot and cannon spitted by his ship. It relaxed him, it served as a promise. That he shall return to his office, an recount the toal coust of this assault.
He danced with his peg-leg, allowing his frame of cosmiun, to continue raising skeletons. The undead, those whitout flesh, where inmune to all the curses of the vampire.
He didnt dare to laugh, tought. He was on the deck of the ship, he needed to oversee the skeleton`s canooners. To direct their cannons towards the enemy ships, as his living mens fighted against the demonic host.
It wasnt an uphill road to vicory. Moena saw Medardos with bloddied knuckles and head, to the cercenations of an hereticals blade. Yet he didnt fell to the bloodloss. As Moena`s magic, held together his body.
The captain was straining his mana, controling the skeletons as the same time he hold together the wounded crewmembers.
Moena took deep breath, as the skeletan`s arms over his shoulders, protected him from rufians and heretics.
He had greatly overstimated his health. He wasn`t his granparent.
At least, dying amiss the blades of the Coalition and the coleric crys of vampires, would be an dead that his granfather would have considered, honorable.
"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
An beutifull chorus of explosions and destruction, singed across the seas of Torrezon.
Parsec, Grim, Jade, Snakes, Sea-dogs, Birds of Plunders, Schools of Xootob, even a few Dires ships, roared their cannons across the waters against the demons and heretica`s fleets.
The Parsecs fleet, devastated the sieges boats with hurricanes and storms, ship`s bombs scurrying across the fleets, filled with valuable cosmiun. Many vampires perished in beutifull colours of purples.
The Grims ships, rammed against the ships, their sailors unfearfull to dead, as both flesh and bones battled with swords and guns against the desercrated goldens weaponry with blood of the monters.
A few hereticals fleet started to sink, thanks to the merfolks saboteurs who joined the Coalitions, eager to clean the world from the plague that its Aclazotz`s spawn.
Yet, it wont be a cake for the pirates. As the night felt, as the demons raised, they swarmed upon the supertitious soldiers. The bloodrinkers, making entire ships cry in pain and horror, as old wound re-opened with their presences. Those ships with magues possed an major resistance to the supernatural`s fiends, yet it was undeniable.
The demonis host of Aclazotz, were breaking their will.
[An note present across all the Coalition`s business in New Cappena, Ravnica, Kamigawa and Theros]
"Sorry, but the fleets called our arms to join the war against the evil bat god of the vampires. It`s highly likely that the old owners will perish in this semi-apocaliptic conlflict, for the fate of the freedom against the new tyranny of the evil bat god.
If you had any date or package signed with us for this week or month, we are afraid that they were canceled. No devolutions."
The morning sun hung low in the sky, illuminating the abandoned town of Gorgia on the conquered island of Skathos.
Sophrosyne was perched upon a chair near the Omenpath. It had been password-locked, and while her divinely-granted power allowed the hydra to push a neck and head through, she did not order it to do so again. There was no sense in launching her attack through there. Not until she got confirmation that Kalleis – poor, sweet, misguided Kalleis – was close on that side. Even with all of her griffins, who flew around the island claimed in Heliod’s name, she did not want to charge through yet.
Her hydra snarled. She turned towards the east, towards the blessed rising sun. Her eyes scanned the waters, until-
There.
An Ixalec ship, not unlike the one she had taken Kalleis from, was coming towards Skathos. A ship bearing the flag of Kalleis’s misguided fleet.
Sophrosyne smiled. It reall had been only a matter of time before Kalleis returned to her. That made this all easier.
Captain Lannery Storm stood on the deck of her ship as they drew close to Skathos. She had a cutlass on each hip, and the small metal box in her pocket felt alarmingly heavy. One click and it would make all of the magic in a ten-foot circle completely stop. The Odithian gods knew what they were doing when it came to this device.
Her half-brother, Captain Marciano Guerra, stood at her left side with his hammer. On her right side was none other than Huehue, the offensive little gnome. Somewhere behind her, Menea was telling Malkonia how to make a triage center, Aoidi was getting a weapon, Mavren was...honestly who knows what the hell Mavren was doing, and Storm’s crew were preparing cannons and other weapons. Once the first shot was done, the crew would have to focus on the griffins. But that was just fine.
“Ready, Lannery?” Marciano asked, hefting up his hammer.
She had learned much about bringing about a reckoning from her time guarded by Tony Fangando. So she offered her brother a grin. “Ready, Marci.” She drew both of her swords and pointed one towards the hydra approaching the ship. “FIRE!” she shouted.
The boom of cannons, of reclaimed freedom, was a beautiful sound.
Moena breathed heavily, as he pushed the wood debris away.
Once again, greed betrayed the fragile cordiality of the Coalition. An "fellow" noble pirate, captain Cobra Witty, tried to avoid new taxes of the Coalition. When dealing with these kind of troublemakers, Moena was obligated to attend them. To remind these hoarder that his name wasn`t to joke with.
The old captain understimated the desesperation of Witty. The hoarder decided to blew up the ground under his feet with cosmiun.
Talking about the traitor, did he survive?
An quick sneeze for the mana and the answer was: Dead. The noble with horrible hair died curmpled under an chest.
Moena addresed the surroundings. Plain wall of soil and stone surrounded thems, with the broken debris of the sallon as the only decoration. Moena`s pegleg, miracously, was intact, alongside his skull Oseo, who was hanging over his shoulder.
Moena dared to look upward, with hope to meet the blue sky. Only to meet an abysmmal darkness, of the underworld.
“This! This is IT ION! You’ve only known this cause for and week and already, I above all shall be proven right! You, you’ve gotta believe me, this shall be the start of our newest era.”
She trembled, her whole body seemed to be losing stability. Hair flicked off like straws, eyes darting around and opening up outside of her head, loose polygons shifting and twirling.
“Atypical Raqsai behaviour - Assessment unknown.” ION’s monotone voice struck the steel walls of it’s office. This metallic box with a door was all that divided the conspiring pair from the rest of Far Xerex. “Other members - possible?”
“They’d, they’d better be. I can feel it now, see it now. The shooting star of Xerex, freeing us from demonic rule.” Her arm swept wildly in the air, before pausing, pointing at nothing.
“Information - Inadequate. Member Thermophagy via communicators - ‘Is she still speaking? We already understand our inner counterparts. Vile things. Force her to speak with haste, we shall invaded once the time comes.’”
“Ther, Thermophagy, FORGET HIM!” She flung a stack of papers into the air, watching the corners catch alight before settling into a dusty pile. “He’s done, he’s done nothing for me. Never will, I’m gonna, oh I’m gonna do it, properly.”
ION kept glancing at the doorway. Viridian had been like this for an hour, ranting off and on about the end of everything. Inner Xerex, Far Xerex’s divisions, the Barrier, anything anyone could possibly associate with the plane as a whole. Before it could even respond, she tore open the doorway, rushing out for air.
“Inconclusive - Raqsai incapable of breathing. Simulated stress response determined.” As ION whispered to itself, their communicator pinged. This rectangle of glowing light held a group of unknown beings. And a story of Inner Xerex far different to how ION had been told it. Demons were just another fragment of Inner Xerex’s declining ecosystem, utilising chaos to survive. They were not some grand caste of rulers, oppressing the plane, nor tyrants threatening Far Xerex. Only one even had any interest in this side of the barrier. ION took after Viridian, into their production wings.
The endless steel corridors ended in a warehouse. Another homogeneous room of browns, greys and golds, with production lines stacking and interlocking like bismuth crystals or the threads of an aggressively overwound knot. In and amongst the rows of quiet, humming workers was the sparkling of red mana, pulsing with fear. A communicator ping.
“How fucking COULD YOU? Already? Please please please, I’m not losing anybody to Mirak already! I know the full truth, the real truth nobody could ever tell you a truth better than I will.”
Crunch. Metal scraping against metal. The snapping of joints, and the escaping of a worker. ION turned the corner to see Viridian clawing at the pipes of a machine, now wheezing slowly as a major gas pipe coughed out white smog. Choking, screeching. Viridian’s body was unwinding itself, arms pulling from arms pulling from threads of material inside its body, cables of eyes and mouths, constantly pulsing and jittering. An arm lunged outwards towards ION’s suit, before the screams continued, the arm shredding itself back into polygons, reforming once again. “All it took was one lie and you’re, you’re a vile mess ION. You know me, I’d never l- never lie, Come back to, to me, I’m non- not mad, please.” Her voice was an amalgam of pitches, cadences, almost speaking over eachother as it tries to communicate.
“Evidence - absent. Your pleas are ineffectual.”
Her monotone voice was met with an outburst. Red mana singed and melted the area around Viridian, a palm pulling more piping out and throwing it as she darted toward ION. She struck back, grabbing a piece of the piping and striking the gangrenous bundle of limbs from beneath, a cacophony of coughing emerging as it hurried away. ION informed the communicator people, and took off, into the engine rooms beneath, stumbled into the trapdoor that Viridian wouldn’t have ever found.
The room breathed. Endless iron bar bridges and drums the size of flats hung in these dingy, warm cellars, piping overhead hissing and clanking away mere inches above the helmet of ION’s suit. Her navy blue armour shone with every stray beam of light from the hanging bulbs around the trapdoor. This was the only place the Incur ever utilised heat. Any smithing with metals was to be done here, even deeper down, to prevent damage to machinery above it, while keeping enough warmth within the buildings to prevent frost damage. Viridian, as set on this goal as she was, had slipped her sanity away. When they first met, she was humanoid. A smile too wide, glassy pearls for eyes and four-armed, in all black formal wear. She spoke of defending ION’s staff, of allowing the Pestoxy to thrive using non-fractals, of giving the Shamashen new ground to operate upon with new laws. Now here she was - taking away her promises. And so was ION. The contract to defend her staff hung above her head like a sword, preparing to drop the moment anyone realised she had failed.
Coughing, voices. She was back. No cowardice, no fear. ION lifted the pipe skywards as she tracked the noises. Whimpering, pleading now. Left, ahead, left again, a right turn to readjust. Nails touching the boilers. And she hadn’t seen the shining lead.
The first strike crunched an arm against a barricade, the second hit something more like a head. Pulses of mana, in nigh-every colour surged out in spasms, arms grasping and begging and ION’s armour stayed steadfast, the passion and ambition catching as the pipe held strong. A third strike, a fourth, ringing like bells as arms crunched and destabilised. The head, a perfect target. The Raqsai may lack most anything a biological being would have, but anything head-shaped is a surefire target. Five, six, seven, sputtering, crashing piano keys, waveforms of unknown sound, eight, nine, ten, counting was pointless as mana kept bursting out. The sounds soon were replaced with steel on steel. Whatever was infront of her had collapsed, chunks of it everywhere. Polygons.
“Reformation chance - 99%. Injuries sustained shall be negligible.”
ION gathered the chunks, bizarre conglomerates of polygons loosely connecting and pulsing with a shared energy. It ran back to its office, assembling them roughly how she had looked before. A mouth, running eyes, blobby hair, stick-figure arms and legs.
It’s communicator pinged, as an Omenpath erupted infront of her. Help was here, arriving to step in for another.
Winter's chill had not fully spared the region. While it had been warmer than the northern reaches of the continent where Guitirre set out, there was still a chill on the air, and thick snow that blanketed the ground. It just so happened to be a bit more slushy and wet than the colder north.
Austello was the southern twin of Alta Torrezon. Or so it was said. Where the heartcity had fantastic works of masonry and carefully cultivated beauty within its walls, Austello instead had more of a… utilitarian feel to it. It was made to not only be the heart of trade for the southern highways and seaways to the east of the Deoro, but also its sword and its shield. High walls, bristling towers, and places of worship that looked more like small fortresses themselves were what greeted the High Marshal and his company. Austello was made of three concentric rings; the outer was where most commonfolk and tradesman would live or sell their wares. Each of the gates that led onto the highways had a small market clustered around them, and there was a bustling market to the southeast where it sat upon the water. Three churches were arrayed around the first ring. Within the second ring was where most of the actual craftwork was done. Forges and a refinery to the north, while textiles were kept closer southward. Distilleries could also be found here.
And then came what many called the Iron Heart of the city. The Iron Heart had began as two main structures; a proper bastion, where the Legion would prosecute their wars -- once, in days very long passed, it had been a castle belonging to some long-forgotten monarch -- and the reliquary. But over time, with repairing and the changing of hands of governance of the city and the influx of Legionnaires over the decades, the two structures had all but become one. A bristling piece of stonework that reached into the sky like a gauntleted hand. The tallest spire had once been called the Indicator of Heavens by the clergy. The Legion had several other colorful names for it. A beautiful rose hewn from the dark basalt of the nearby mountains marked the large entryway, as well as two figures in elegantly layered golden armor. Champions. Once, they had been the ones to lead the Legion to war, acting as the Marshals now did. But after Ixalan and the invasion, their numbers thinned to far, and Marshals filled their positions as they became glorified honor guard.
This was where the Legion would stay, if they were not being put into the barracks built into the outer walls. High officers would always stay here. But there was also a place of worship found here, though not of congregation. Not with the commonfolk or the artisans and merchants. In some circumstances, not even for the nobility. The lowest-ranking clergy that was allowed in these hallowed walls was a Heirophant. The lowest-ranking Legionnaire would be a Marshal.
For this was the reliquary of some of the most holy weaponry and armors within all of Torrezon. Before the invasion, this place had once held more than just that, but during and afterward, most had been moved to the heartcity. It did, however, also have an extensive network of tombs beneath the ground. Most were of soldiers long since passed. One or two were said to be Venerables. Those were rumors. Guitirre knew the truth, and he knew that the country was not ready for it. So he let them speak and murmur and whisper about it. Let them speculate.
He put his fist to his chest as he walked beyond the Champions. The door had already opened by the time he made it there.
He knew the two Champions by reputation rather than relation. Both had gone to Ixalan. One had been a Sanctum Seeker, the other coming afterwards as reinforcements. They bowed their heads in deferrence to him as he passed, and he gave them a quick glance over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind him.
Dim torchlight flickered from the sconces that lined the entryway he was greeted with. He felt as though he had entered a tomb. But he knew where he had to go for this… mostly clandestine meeting.
He walked through the mostly empty halls, heading towards the faithful center of the Iron Heart. If the Legion was its lifeblood, this was the muscle itself, orchestrating the faith and governance of Austello.
The walk through the cold stone halls made him realize just how exhausted he was. How much he wanted this damn war to be over with. How he longed to be the wolf on the waves again. He didn't want to be spending his time fighting back the malformed figures of his own countrymen. Who would?
But he also knew he shouldn't let himself tread down that winding bit of thought for too long. It was times like these that his whispering was loudest.
Guitirre hated that. "Loud whispering". It sounded the same as "quiet cannon fire". A phrase for poets and artisans, he supposed. He was neither. Unless one counted warfare an art, which some did. But no one went around calling themselves an "artisan of warfare". Only bastard peacocks who never actually saw a battle line a day in their lives.
Maybe he was overdue for some proper rest. Maybe he was going a bit mad, letting such insignificant things grate on him. Or maybe it was Aclazotz. Hard to tell these days. But if it was madness setting in, he'd need to find a safe place to rest for a good while once everything was over. He was old enough. Was he?
How old was he now? Three centuries? Three and a half? He'd stop keeping track. The record was still kept by the Church, so he found little use in paying too much attention.
The stonework moved from the volcanic black of the original structure into the newer, lighter and more elegantly carved granite that made up the interior of the reliquary and it's adjacent environs. More bristling Champions were milling about, guarding. A few gave him a greeting or a salute as he passed. They knew he would be here, and they knew his mission. Nothing else needed to be said. The time for merriment and pleasantries would have to wait.
A winding staircase brought him into the Iron Heart's underbelly. Instead of a Champion guarding the chamber, it was a cardinal attended by two chaplains.
"Cardinal Socorro," Guitirre greeted with a bow.
"High Marshal Guitirre," the cardinal said in acknowledgement. She was a kind soul. She was one of the oldest surviving members of the clergy, though most of that owed to the fact that she was usually in a deep slumber unless times were dire. She preferred to rest. She only wanted to do what she must and then let other hands and hearts take over. It was a sentiment Guitirre understood, in part. For now, she was acting as the guardian over the reliquary. Austello was her home, after all. Technically she lived just beyond its walls, more eastward, but she spent most of her time here. She was part of the conclave in Alta Torrezon, but it seemed that she was either called here or was dismissed.
"I come for my summons," he said, producing the folded note. The cardinal took it in her hands, holding it far gently than he did. Despite not being a condemner, there was the tell-tale signs of age in her features; a few deepened lines in her face and some of the hair at her temples beginning to fade into grey. Guitirre was also a bit more worn and rough-hewn, but most of that came from his tenure on the waves.
"So you have." The cardinal folded the note, then handed it to one of the chaplains beside her. She then went to the door, spoke a whispered phrase, and it slowly began to open. "I wish you luck, High Marshal."
"Thank you, your grace," he said, offering a salute and moving beyond the thick stone door.
The chamber beyond had high, vaulted walls. From the way they had been sculpted, one would easily believe themselves to be looking into the ribcage of a massive creature. Perhaps the ribs of Nezahal were this large. He had only seen the elder dinosaur a handful of times, and he swore it was as large as the greatest of dreadnoughts, if not larger.
Set into the floor was a beautiful relief of a rose, thorns and petals outlined in gold. Various tapestries depicting the Saint and various historically significant faces and forms were also strewn about. The chamber was filled in with shelves, stands, and tables where the relics were kept. Guitirre walked past them all, his eyes occasionally lingering on one or two. Oh, how he longed to wield one of them. Perhaps he would with how dire things had gotten.
Especially one beautiful sword that was set next to armor that belonged to a long-dead veteran of the Apostacine Wars. Then again, it was more of a bastard sword, and although he could wield it, he preferred the lighter and more dextrous weapons these days.
Toward the back of the relic chamber proper, there was a space that had been cleared. A larger table with many empty seats took up most of it. There was a map of the continent pinned to the table, and as he approached, he could see the lines and boundaries constantly moving and shifting. He observed the map for some time in silence. The grim reality it showed him was slowly sinking in.
He heard the shifting of stone. Another door set into the wall adjacent to him opened. A rose was carved into the face. The subtle scent of incense drifted out of it. The High Marshal stood a bit straighter at attention as a figure walked out to meet him. He immediately fell to one knee, head dipped in reverence.
The Saint was beautiful in the same way that sunsets were beautiful. To look upon her was to see an aspect of the divine given flesh. It was said that when Mavren Fein first saw her, he dropped to his knees and wept. The High Marshal fully understood why.
He had only been in her blessed presence twice before. The first time, he too had found himself weeping, for she had finally returned home. The second, he was in rapt awe, barely able to make a coherent sentence for the first few minutes of meeting her.
And now, he knelt before her again. Tired, beaten, sore and aching both in mind and spirit, but his pains felt… lessened. Lighter in her divine notice.
"Greetings, High Marshal Guitirre," came a practiced and melodious voice.
"Blessed One," Guitirre said, his voice a bit weaker than he had wanted.
"Your reverence is acknowledged." The Saint spoke with a tinge of exhaustion. Guitirre slowly got back to his feet.
"I thank you for meeting with me," he said, dipping his head again. "I only wish I could be a bearer of better news."
"And what news do you have for me, High Marshal?" The Saint, now that Guitirre was more properly looking at her, was dressed in the garb that she had become most closely associated with; golden armor, a flowing cloak about her shoulders, a thin halo following her, the same color as her sunset eyes. A pin of the rose for which she had been named in her loose, black hair. Her skin was a bit more ashen than it usually was. An odd reminder of her distant mortality.
"Alta Torrezon is being swept into an inquisitorial fervor," Guitirre began. "Cardinal Ayere of the Order of Condemnation is directing it."
"An inquisition?" The Saint's eyes narrowed.
"He was able to get the conclave to agree to it, Holiness," Guitirre said tiredly. "Myself and Catarina -- High Marshal Vazante, I believe you may have met briefly -- personally tried to intervene. The Legion isn't being used in it. Or at least we aren't getting strongarmed."
"Wonderful." Elenda sighed. Guitirre felt every bit of exasperation in that one gesture. "And he did not send for other authorization? Does the queen know of these proceedings?"
"Her Majesty has been made aware, Blessed One. But I also regret to inform you that it is working." Guitirre's hand went to rest on the hilt of his weapon. "The people are as faithful and devoted as ever. They're ravenous." His lips pulled into a line, making the creases in his face deepen. "The cardinal did mention that he'd step down if you so ordered, but only then."
The Saint looked away from him, turning her attention instead to the map. The wash of deep red marching closer and closer, devouring more and more of the continent by the hour, by the day.
"And the people have been holding?"
"They have. I haven't seen this much zeal since the pontifex's last sermon or since your return."
"Then… I suppose it will be allowed to remain for the time being," Elenda said carefully. Guitirre bowed his head. "What other news do you have of the north?"
"We were ambushed on the way by a traitor condemner. She's already well on her way to be dealt with, she's related to the spouse of one of my own," the High Marshal replied. "We also noticed a bit of a scuffle by the omenpath on the way here, the one by the Deoro river. The ones who harbored some of our own refugees for a time before they were sent back to Andreas. We found a party who had gotten through and we encountered a beast known as a hydra. They're apparently common enough from their home."
"How many?"
Guitirre took a moment to think, closing an eye and making a bit of a face. "I think about two hundred. They're asking to remain with us for a time and ferry the warning. I will bring in their commander when I speak with Andreas tonight, Blessed One, unless you wish to meet her yourself."
"That may be wise." Her lips pursed. She was still studying the map, and he noticed her eyes had gone to where the omenpath was marked. Guitirre watched with her, a silence stretching between them.
"We are exhausted, Blessed One. Not to say you aren't here, naturally, but I…" The words died as the Saint looked back at him, those golden eyes boring into him. He swallowed thickly. "Our numbers are thinning. The cardinal and the rest of the conclave are doing their best but…" He paused. "He isn't Pontifex Fein. He has the zeal, but not the draw."
"There is a reason he was passed over when the position became vacant." Elenda crossed her arms.
"I have been doing all that I can, Blessed One," he said, bowing his head in respect. "As we all are. But even if the cardinal does not have that magnetism, zealous fervor is enough to keep the fire in the people's bellies, making their fear into something a little more stable, but paradoxically less." He paused. "If I may be so bold-"
"You wish to know where he is?"
"I would. So I can come up with better answers other than 'I do not know' for myself and my subordinates," Guitirre said with a nod. "With how often rumors are flying of his fleeing, I'd like to be able to ground them in something. Cardinal Theodors has been able to ground his support in the apparent fact that our pontifex may have fled his post."
The Saint was quiet for an uncomfortable moment. He felt as though she was opening up his soul to peer inside of it, see all of his secrets. Making sure he was pure enough to trust with the information.
"If only to ensure that the cardinal does not have too strong of a chokehold by the time he does return…" Elenda shook her head. "He is on a different plane. I will not tell you which, for his safety and ours, but you can tell the others that he is on a holy mission for me. One where we may find an answer to how to deal with the Betrayer."
"That is what we inferred," the High Marshal said, dipping his head again. "I will be glad to share with them a more stable truth." He straightened his posture a little. "So, my Saint, you have dragged me from the northen seas down to the south. May I ask why me?"
"You are often spoken highly as a wolf on the waves," Elenda said, looking back to the map. "I am far less of a tactician than you may be, but I know a fatal weakness when I see one." She indicated a portion of the map where the seas were turning red.
"Easier sailing down here than northward," Guitirre muttered, stroking his short beard. "I do not blame them for focusing here."
"Can you fight them back?"
"In time, yes. Very little of the paladins who were under my command by the time this broke out turned traitor. They have been loyal to me, and to you in turn, my Saint." He leaned over the map. "I have asked for seven of my Marshals to join me. The rest and their companies will remain north to help Arguel and Sarria with keeping up patrols. Vazante has taken over the defense of Alta Torrezon for the most part." Already he was beginning to draw up potential lines of attack.
"How much time do you need?" The Saint's eyes were burning into him again.
"Give me two weeks to get a proper hold on them, and then from there…" He tilted his head. "Depends on the state of our ships and theirs, in all honesty." He wore a grim smile."I know. We're getting far too close to the solstice now. I will give us this one reprieve, at least. One of my Marshals is a cavaliero rather than a sea dog like the rest of us. He'll be working to bolster Costana and Salinas both. As I have said, we are doing what we can, my Saint. We'll resist them to our last."
Elenda nodded, though he noticed that she was quietly displeased. She had hoped he could come and turn the tide. He had hoped he would be doing the same, but he knew to be more practical.
"Is there anything else you'd like of me, Blessed One?" the High Marshal asked.
"Get a message to the north to Alta Torrezon. If we can find enough time for there to be a reprieve, I will be on my way to speak with the cardinal more personally and review this inquisition." Guitirre saw the look of utter exhaustion in the way she spoke and held herself in that moment. What could it possibly mean for them if one invested in the divine was even growing weary of this? "Otherwise, ensure that the rumors of Pontifex Fein fleeing are extinguished."
"And the people of the omenpath, Blessed One?" he asked. "Would you wish to speak with them?"
"Their representative, yes," Elenda answered. "It does not have to be immediate. I will be returning to the front lines as the fighting picks up for the evening."
"As you will, my Saint." Guitirre put a fist to his chest and bowed low to her. "I ought to be meeting with Andreas and seeing what I have in terms of auxilliary arms and ships." He snorted. "I am sure she'll be overjoyed to see me."
"You two are rivals?" the Saint asked. There was a strange quality to the question, as though she didn't understand the concept.
"Oh, no. I just like giving Salinas a hard time," Guitirre answered with a small laugh. "Having some levity in times like these is important, I think." The Saint did not laugh, nor smile. Guitirre felt a faint bit of embarrassment. He cleared his throat. "I shall also work on getting that message out. I know the grandson of the cardinal is still on the communique-"
"Is he the cleric who was with the Marshal from Innistrad?" Elenda asked. Guitirre was momentarily wrongfooted.
"He is, yes. There will be some updates on the Innistrad situation, your grace, once his brother returns from his absolution. He has been working to get rid of the bounties over there," the High Marshal explained. Another pause.
"I see." She tilted her head. "Then yes, have him deliver the message."
"As you will, Blessed One." Guitirre bowed again. "I wish you well in the battle tonight. I will see you at the front." And with that, he turned and walked back through the reliquary, painfully aware that the Saint was watching him as he left. His eyes did linger over one or two items, making a mental list of the ones he'd ask to requisition. He then exited the room entirely, letting out a sigh and saying his goodbyes to Cardinal Socorro, and marching back through the Iron Heart to get to his means of accessing the communication network.
Once he got to his temporary quarters, he sat down at the creaky desk near to the small, shuttered window, and sighed.
"Even Elenda herself looks exhausted beyond all reason," he muttered. "Pontifex Fein, wherever you have gone, make this worth our while. Please. For our sake and for hers."
He then set to reaching out on the network before he'd go speak with the strange Gorgians again.
Extracted logs - Communicator ID: 4.112746.P to Communicator ID: 3.88736.R
Source - User information redacted.
“It’s been a while, has it not?”
“Thermophagy, please. I helped you cover up everything, people won’t believe you but they’ll always believe me. You’re the villain of your OWN story anyway, and for what? You fucked up your own plan, backtracked, and blew it all up publicly.”
“Viridian. There you go again. Furious at nothing. We took that, accountability individuals are so obsessed with. It is done, and we shall continue as intended. Our next target we discussed privately.”
“Oh why there? You know Dremska isn’t hiding there anyway, I know how something like you could miss them.”
“You genuinely believe, through all our vitriol, our bloodshed and beatings we inflicted onto that man, you believe I miss him? And cannot acquired a replacement dummy to assault when I grow weary? Violence, Raqsai hypocrite, is in our nature.”
“He got out cause all you did was attack him. I saw the way that your claws dug into him. I didn’t do that, well I didn’t mean to hurt him at all-“
“But you did. You landed the first blow. That courtyard where you struck him, it still has the ashes of his cigarette smeared onto the tile it hit.”
“Why are we even talking about this? We have two months till the wall falls and we gotta fight, and we’re having petty arguments about somebody we… did nothing to.”
“You cannot even accept your own hand in these operations?”
“I accept that this discussion is over, and we’re meeting with the ACTS representative for the Shamashen and the manager of that weapons factory tomorrow.”
“Yet you cannot accept your own cruelty. You instigated every, single thing. You know as such. You burnt Dremska, broke the arms of your fellow Caberetti when you believed yourself anonymous. You took everything from anyone who looked prettier than you. What are you but these vapid desires? Your identity crisis you’re also publicly having is a sign that there’s nothing behind your glossy shell.”
“Thermophagy, I told you every last thing I’ve done wrong in confidence. And you want to pour acid on my open, fresh wounds?”
“Not as fresh as those you have inflicted. Your innermost turmoil is as much a facade as every other aspect of you. It is the fundamental truth of all Raqsai - performative, nonsensical vapours of speech flow out you like you are meeting the tide, and once the reality is unveiled, that you are just as sick as I, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“You’re right. I can’t gather everyone together if I don’t know myself properly. I lose that image in my minds eye, and need to find it again. I can, soul search later. But know that this is the last thing I’ll ever help you with until you start pulling your weight.”
“There you go. No longer do you defend yourself from the truth you confessed. Once we are freed from conversation, we shall begin our work on Thunder Junction. You shall have your communicators delivered, and we shall have a private citadel.”
Data Expunged. Further connections between communicators - 27 connections. Warded - ERR 404 - OPNF
“Crap, my first conversation that I try and get into with Technomancy and it’s warded around the good stuff? Posting this on the other side of the network anyway. Don’t let me catch ya!” — K
Hi network, I sit next to Biilzie, they said to take a video and post it and I’m not letting them back out. They’re probably fine.
[A video, taken by the seat neighbor holding my communicator. I am standing in front of a class of mixed first-years and first-year Silverquills, facing an orc TA in Silverquill uniform. The professor tells us to begin, and we do. The orc moves first, a pair of inklings launching towards me. I match them with my own, a functional flock of cackling inklings, all smaller, all crackling with the occasional arc of red electricity. I let out a laugh as they swarm the orc’s, surrounding them, that same electricity sending both spasming until they burst. My laugh is sliding into a derisive cackle to match my inklings as they turn to face the orc, who is standing tall, staring right back at me. I don’t notice his own inkling sliding into the frame behind me as mine descend upon him. My horns are arcing with lightning, crackling with power until—his inkling hits. Slams into me, wraps around my head, knocks me to the ground. My own inklings all pause in unison, letting out a surprised noise before popping like water balloons. The orc gasps as they hit him, the splattering ink still electrified. He spasms and comes down with me, the ink clutching to my head melting into a puddle. The professor sighs slightly, annoyed, and glances up into the camera. The video cuts.]
