Greetings, people of the Multiverse! I am Menea the Phármakon, a cleric of the goddess Pharika. I am from Theros, but I am currently traveling through various planes. I am a student in magic, medicine, alchemy, and science both benefic and malefic. I also have a great appreciation for the arts, nature, and music. I have an elder sister who lives on the island of Skathos with her daughter, I love them both dearly.
A quick "Q and A", as the children call it:
Do you turn people to stone? Not typically, but I am not above it when threatened. Do not threaten me or my family and you have nothing to fear.
Who is Pharika? Pharika is the Therosian goddess of medicines and poisons, the one who knows that the only difference between the two is merely dosage. She is the creator and mother of gorgons. I am a cleric, but I am no preacher. It is enough for me to treasure my connection to the God of Affliction.
How did you acquire this communicator? I traded a secret to a traveling merchant for it and allowed them to leave my sister's island without harm.
What is a gorgon? I was recently informed that many planes do not have gorgons. Imagine, if you will, a human with snakes in place of hair and a long tail in place of legs. Many of my sisters (proverbial, not literal) may prey upon whatever they find, but I prefer my studies to hunting. We can choose whether or not to turn someone to stone, it is not as instant as just making eye contact with us, but for the comfort of other races I have acquired "sunglasses" to hide my eyes.
I am looking forward to speaking with and learning from you all!
His name came as a death rattle upon the wind. He straightened, ears twitching in the direction of the sound.
"Who goes there?" His voice echoed strangely back to him. He was --
-- not in his place of usual imprisonment. Where he found himself was in a place of infinite twilight, stretching farther than the eye could see. His eyes widened. He was... free.
Vito.
He spun around, eyes searching the endless horizon for any sign of the one calling him. It was not the same voice as his god, he knew that much.
"Where are you?" he called. "Who calls to me?"
Vito.
"I am here!" he shouted. "Where are you? Who are you?"
He heard the sound of clattering bones. A string of them together, taken from a time unknowable and nigh unreachable to him. They clattered against armor more ancient than any of the written works of the church he once devoted his life towards.
A thing walked out of the gloom. Dessicated wings clung fast to its body, shriveled fingers locked into bits of ancient armor. Its face was half skeletonized, half flesh pulled too tight over whatever remained of its skull. At one point, it had to have been a human. Large fangs protruded from its mouth. One of its eyes was a deep, stinging red.
I am Xamanek of the Thousand.
Vito's eyes widened. He retreated a half-step, then fell to one knee in obedient reverence.
"You have come to retrieve me, then? For our master's crusade?"
No.
"No?"
No. You, Vito, will not be marching at the side of our god. He has deemed you unworthy of that honor.
"What?" Vito shook his head. "No, you must be mistaken. I-- I am the one who freed him, I am the one who restored him so that he and his children may yet fight and feast at his side, I am -- I am loyal!"
You are weak.
The champion approached. Vito stared up at the giant avatar of his god. He felt nothing but hunger and hatred radiating from his form.
It is the decree of our god that the weak must fuel the strong.
A hand, crackling as it moved, reached for him. Dread, so thick it paralyzed him, made his body feel as though it had turned to stone.
Right before the grasp could close around him, as the champion opened its ancient, fang-filled maw --
"No!"
A lance was in his hands. He rammed it up, through, and out, twisting as he went. It was a practiced and fluid motion. He wrenched the weapon free, backing away from the champion as he did so.
A hole had been punched up and out of its malformed skull. A red eye was fixated on him. He began to back away, clutching the lance in both hands, his eyes watching the avatar of hunger and suffering before him slowly begin to reconstitute its own face.
"I was loyal!" he roared, his voice echoing in this place between places. "I am the reason our master yet flies! I gave my life to him, and traded my unlife to servitude! I have been working to gift the church to him by turning its most faithful heart, and yet you seek to have me devoured?" He grit his teeth. "What have you done for him, Xamanek of the Thousand? Aside from rotting within his realm beyond realms? Aside from your death securing his own capture? What have you done for your god?"
The avatar took a step forward, wings peeling away from the desiccated armor with the snapping of twigs. He could make out etchings of other battles, now long since faded, accompanied by what he assumed to be trailing script, though it was unrecognizable to him.
My very presence has bred madness into the minds of the unfaithful and the unyielding.
"That presence which lasted only but days and was rebuffed by the might of the Venerable Saint!" Vito spat. "And now you come to seek me out to fuel you? As though I were the unworthy one out of the two of us! You have done nothing but sit here and rotted away for untold ages! I have preached in his name, I have been doing everything I could with everything I had for him, and you think me the weakling one?" He had the lance aimed right at the avatar's chest.
Such impiety for one of the chosen avatars of our god.
"If this is the fate he wishes for me, if THIS is one of the avatars our god chooses to accompany his side --" Vito paused. He looked away from the thing of death and destruction, eyes once again searching the endless twilit horizon around him. A voice echoed back.
"Your god abandoned you, Vito."
"Following after me would've been a fool's errand. You could've easily died or gotten yourself captured and then killed."
"We were wrong! We had committed a dire blasphemy and worked against the meaning our Saint meant for us when she gave to us the Rite and left to find the Immortal Sun. I am not above admitting that, even if you think yourself to be."
"You've done... so much. I'm struggling to hold everything together, even with the new delegations that I am trying, and now..."
When his eyes went back to the avatar before him, he saw its six wings now spreading wider, ready. He saw that look of infinite hunger and anger in its eye.
Any scrap of benevolence he had ever felt his god might've had for him withered and died in that gaze. He felt a weight lifting from around his shoulders.
"I thought there would be a brighter future if I had unified our kindred under the wings of our god."
There will be. But you deserve no part in it. You are too weak. You have been granted enough chances. Our god has no place for you.
"At least Elenda preached that all were deserving of the future she envisions."
She would have you starved and rotting.
"And you would see me devoured!"
He saw its clawed hand reaching for him again. He huffed, gritted his teeth, and once more thrust the lance, twisting, up and out, then wrenched it back. The champion made a strange noise between a choked growl and a hiss, ash falling from its mouth as it did so. Vito hardly saw it as he turned on his heel and ran, not even noticing that he was no longer in the form of the canonized as he did so.
He returned to his usual confinement with a start, gasping as though winded.
He shook himself out, taking stock of what he had just seen, cursing brilliantly under his breath.
"Mavren? Mavren!" he called, pacing around the confines of the enchanted jar. "Mavren!"
"Be silent," came a voice from beyond his prison.
"Mavren, please, you must listen! I have a warning! Mavren!"
Through one of the reflective lenses upon the side of the jar, he saw the tired and somewhat haggard face of Mavren come into view. Pinpricks of starlight were found in his gaze now.
"What is it?" he asked, sounding annoyed.
"Listen, this is going to sound insane--"
"Just say it."
"Aclazotz is bringing back his thousand champions," Vito said quickly. "You already know of one, Xamanek, but this is only a sign that others are going to follow."
"His thousand champions?"
"Yes! Do you not know of them?" Vito blinked. "Haven't you had--"
"Archaeological expeditions to the Core have been all but fruitless, no thanks to what you had done," Mavren answered plainly. "Explain."
"During the age in which Aclazotz was imprisoned, he fought another one of the gods of the people of the Core alongside a thousand of his most faithful. His thousand against that of the enemy god. Those thousand were elevated to such a status that they, in themselves, were divine."
"Like our Venerables."
"Stronger, Mavren. Each reflects a shard and aspect of him, aside from his most zealous of lieutenants. The madness that you dealt with and quelled alongside the Saint--"
"-- was a harbinger of a greater presence to come," Mavren finished for him. He paused, then frowned down at the jar. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because--" Vito stopped. He looked right at the face of the man his stilled heart would beat for. "Because I have seen that I am wrong. Xamanek had come for me, and he sought to consume me so that he may be empowered enough to fight at our god's side. Please, I know this sounds insane and mad, but it is true!"
Mavren stared down at the jar for a long moment. "Have you come to your senses, then? At last?"
Vito hesitated. He felt something rippling, like a stone scattered on water. He nodded. "I- listen. I still believe there is much to reconcile with in terms of the church and its doctrines, but... but yes, yes, I see it now. I saw nothing but death and hatred in his eyes. I saw... I saw how truly worthless I was to him, to Aclazotz, to everything. And I remembered what you had told me after I confessed about what sent me down this path and..." He looked away, his voice softening. "I was wrong."
Mavren's mouth twitched. He could feel his scrutiny, and he looked back to face it more fully.
"Do not think that this will be close to enough to atone for what you have done," he said sternly. Vito nodded.
"I know, but Mavren -- look. The Thousand are coming. Not tonight, perhaps not even in the next month, but they are coming, and they are coming soon. And when each awakens, we will all suffer for it. Not the humans, not the peoples of this plane, but us. Each represents an aspect of our nature but writ large. Xamanek is one of his oldest lieutenants; others are sure to awaken and follow in due time."
"You know how to defeat them?"
"Not to defeat them, but who they are, and which to watch for." Vito pressed a hand against the jar. "Let me show you. Please. I can not do it while confined here."
Mavren once again laid his scrutinizing, dark eyes on him. Vito waited. He heard a very long, tired sigh.
"Once I release you, you will tell me everything. And I do mean everything. And then, if what you say is true, and this holds a key to bringing the church and to bringing Torrezon back together, then I will consider bringing this to the rest of the clergy and see about having you on a path of truer redemption."
"I hardly care about that," Vito said with a scoff. "I -- Mavren, I must make sure that you are safe, and I know I will not be able to protect you if I side in his camp. Nor would I be able to preserve any of what I love here in Torrezon. I... I do this for the same reason I freed him in the first place. Because I still love you."
Mavren's look was hard, but Vito saw his jaw soften, even if his eyes didn't. He felt the enchantments woven around his prison become undone, and soon... he was standing before Mavren. He carefully took his hands in his own, wishing he could feel them more properly again.
"Tell me everything you know about them," Mavren stated. He spoke a word, a book and pen opening nearby. "Let this be the record of the testimony of the Arch-Heretic, first of his confessions to wipe the damned stains from his soul." The pen dutifully recorded his words, and then Mavren focused on Vito again. "Begin."
Vito looked at him, then at the book, then back again. He saw the exhaustion writ large over him. He saw the heaviness that the office of Pontifex had put around his neck and shoulders, and he saw the mask that he wore so often affixed firmly to his face.
But he also saw the glimmer of something else. Something more hopeful, more kind, more...
He shook his head a little, then nodded. He opened his mouth and began to speak.
I squished my hands in the mud one last time, flattening it out. Sweat – I did not know before now that I could sweat – practically poured down my body, soaking my robes. I was glad that I had dismissed my armor before I started working. Though that did nothing for my wings, which were filthy with mud and dirt and swamp water.
Swamp water.
By my fellow goddesses and my mother’s wilds, I didn’t know for sure how long it had been. A few months? A year? It was hard to say. I had been busy doing the work, not marking the days.
What was easier to say was that it was finally done. After a lot of field research and flights to different planes, after asking questions of the Dea Pronoia and other goddesses who remembered swamplands, after finding plants stashed away and hidden, after literally changing the course of a river to have a proper offshoot...
Swampland now returned to Thyrsus.
Thank you, Grixis and Alara, I thought as I looked over my work. Thank you, Thunder Junction. Thank you, Innistrad. Thank you, Arcavios. Thank you, Capenna. Thank you, Tarkir. Those six planes and the information from them had been the most helpful in this endeavor. Everyone who cared for those planes, mortal or undead or immortal or something else, had helped in some way with restoring my home.
Kholkis rolled around in the mud that I had just tamped down. I laughed and reached down to pet the hatchling behind the horns. “I know, isn’t it so exciting?” I asked, a little rhetorically. “We have a swamp again! Let’s go get Drakôn and make sure this helps her.” Kholkis let out a low trill and curled up around my arm, snuggling against the crook of my shoulder. Already she was growing, her wings becoming more powerful and her coils becoming longer, in ways she hadn’t on other planes or in the non-swampy parts of Thyrsus. That meant that at least part of my theory worked.
I spread my four wings, beat the mud and dirt out of them, and took off into the sky and towards Drakôn’s hiding place.
The cave that the Progenitor Dragon was still inside of had not changed much. Its blood still coated the cavern floor. Its coils still wrapped around every twist and turn. Its breathing was still labored.
“Come on, Drakôn,” I coaxed as I carefully approached its greatly-horned head. Its deep violet eyes locked onto me as I stepped closer. “I won’t lie to you, it’s going to hurt, but we need to move you. There’s a swamp now. You can heal. You just have to let me help you out of this cave.”
My second-eldest sister, who predated every goddess but our creator, studied me warily. I waited, my hands extended, my paws still against the blood-tacky stone, my wings carefully folded to minimize my possibility of seeming like a threat to a being who predated me many millennia over. Kholkis remained wrapped around both of my shoulders, studying her source in turn.
Drakôn let out a noise that may have been a sigh were it not for how pained and raspy it was. It slowly uncoiled its body with a hiss that even I recognized as pain, allowing me to support its head as it unthreaded itself from the cavern that had been its protection since the Phyrexian Invasion.
“I know,” I murmured as I pet one of its great horns. “I know. It’s not going to get better until we do something about it. You’ll heal. I know you will.”
The next steps – Drakôn dragging itself along the stone and then the grass by its trembling legs – were difficult. So was every step afterwards. But I stayed by my sister’s side, supporting it when it stumbled and keeping its head up.
The swamp I had restored was not far from its cave, but the trip was still made longer by its injuries. It took an hour to get there – an hour of stumbling, an hour of hissing, an hour of blood seeping into the ground, an hour of pain and misery on the behalf of the Progenitor Dragon.
But the moment Drakôn stepped foot into the restored swamp, it was all worth it.
I watched, mesmerized, as the horrible ripped gash in its throat began to close, folding in on itself and sealing back under muscle and tissue and skin and scale. The trembling of its limbs subsided. Its wings spread to their full strength. It raised its head without my help and let out a roar that shook the very earth.
I grinned and pumped my fist in the air. My wings flared out as I did so. “Yes!” I laughed. “Yes! We did it, Kholkis!”
Kholkis let out a delighted chirp and slid down from my shoulders. I watched in real time as she also grew. Her teeth finally came in, her dark grey python-patterned body continued to lengthen, her grey wings with white patches – my own healing work – grew in size and strength, and her bright yellow eyes remained clear and focused.
It worked. It worked.
Drakôn leaned down and pressed its forehead to mine. I reached up with my left hand to cradle its jaw. “You’re welcome, adelfí,” I murmured. “I’m glad I could help you.”
That was when I felt something else. A summons from our mother. That was...odd. Usually she waited until the ten-year meetings to speak to most of us. Especially me.
I brushed that off and looked at Kholkis. “I’ll be back,” I promised. “You keep...growing, I guess.” Kholkis chirped and began to roll around in the swamp water.
I smiled and focused on the divine realms. With a flash of light from my horns and feathers, I stepped sideways and up into my creator’s domain.
My mother’s divine realm was a classic wooden temple. The Dea Xenia did not need the shows of power that the other goddesses made of their realms, because the fact that Thyrsus existed at all was evidence of her strength. The long table for visitors remained in the middle of it all, running the length of the worship hall and leading up to the roaring fire of the hearth that remained eternally lit for sacrifices. And there, standing with her back to me and facing the fire, stood my mother.
My paws padded on the wooden floor. “Dea Xenia,” I called as I approached. I stopped a few feet away from her, not climbing the dais that led to the hearth. “Uh, Mother. Is something wrong?”
“No, Soteira. Quite the opposite, in fact.” My mother’s voice rumbled with power. I sometimes thought about how stressful it must be to be so strong that even your own voice shook. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been working hard for half of the year in order to alter the landscape and restore swampland.” My mother turned around to face me and, as usual, I was struck by her resemblance to Lily over the rest of us. Sure, we all had the same skin tone and black hair, though Cinderblaze and I both cut ours short, but the differences were in the details.
I bore two black horns leading to four green points, freckles across my whole body, four black and green and white feathered wings, and the paws of a lion for feet.
Cinderblaze had four black horns where the front two turned red at the points and the back two turned green, roan patterning on his shoulders and furred hips, black and red and green draconic wings, furry legs leading down to hooves, and three draconic tails.
But our mother was once human. She had no horns, no wings. She had scars across her face that marred her features greatly; I often wondered if she was permanently scarred or if she just preferred to bear them. Her black hair was pulled back in a braid, though some shorter chunks framed her face. And Lily looked the most like her, with a small scattering of freckles in place of scars and a ponytail in place of a braid.
But while Cinderblaze had red eyes and I had yellow, both Mother and Lily bore green eyes. Even though Lily was made of water like I had been made of light and Cinderblaze had been made of fire, it wasn’t reflected in her eyes like our sources were.
Sometimes I was jealous of that. I wanted to look like our mother. I wanted to bear a greater resemblance to the powerful woman who had created all of us and our home. Other times, the idea of being in such a feminine body made me recoil. Sometimes, being called a goddess felt...bad.
But in the present, I kept my shoulders squared. “I have,” I confirmed. “Drakôn had been injured by the invasion and was hiding to heal, but she couldn’t heal because Húdrā had turned all of the contested ground into forest, and because she was injured, she couldn’t just turn it back. I realized what happened when one of the satyrs I was hunting a dragon with found a baby dragon that didn’t grow, and that brought my attention to the problem. I found Drakôn’s hiding place and realized what the problem was. So I’ve been working on studying swamps and ecological restoration methods introduced on other planes, because Lily said I should give it a look.”
Mother was rarely a woman who smiled, but to my surprise, that was what I saw as I finished speaking. “Thank you, Soteira.”
I blinked a few times. Then I folded my wings more properly against my back. “I didn’t do it to be thanked.”
“No,” Mother agreed. “You did it because it needed to be done. You did it because you saw the problem and did not want to let it remain a problem. And THAT is why I thank you.”
“...Oh,” I said. That was what I had done.
Mother stepped down from the dais. We were the same height, though my horns and wings and layered robes (...that were still stained with dirt, I realized) made me visually larger than her. But I still felt smaller than her. It was so easy to remember the process of my own creation, how she cradled light in her hands until it turned into me. I was the youngest of my sisters, the youngest creation before Dea Haliplanktos made manticores. And with how tired Mother seemed, I was pretty sure I would be the last thing that she personally created.
Mother’s palm cradled my cheek like my own had just cradled Drakôn’s. “You have done something new and impressive, Soteira,” she said, trying to make her voice softer. “I am proud of you. This was an oversight that I should have addressed myself, but even I did not realize what was happening. You have done something good, something that benefits the whole of Thyrsus. I would like to offer you another domain, another aspect, to make this easier in the future if it becomes necessary again.”
My wings fluttered against my back. I raised my gaze to my mother’s in shock. “Really?” I asked. “That’s...I can have another domain?” I already bore light and battle as part of my duties. And Lily had claimed trickery several months ago, but it did not occur to me that Mother could just...grant it.
Mother nodded. “If you would like, you may bear the duties of ecological care, expanding your duties as the Saving Goddess from saving not just mortals, but also to the lands they live and rely on.”
I thought about that as Mother’s hand fell away for a moment. I was busy and often called to aid or bless mortals who fought monsters. Some even called me to bless their hunts. Already, mortals considered my duties to expand from battle against monsters to more of a battle against hunger itself. So why not expand that further? If I were also involved in monitoring and caring for the land itself, it would be easier to see what was a threat and what animals or monsters needed time to recover their numbers. I’d be able to better help with the balance between Drakôn and Húdrā. It would be more work, but I wouldn’t be doing it alone. I could get the help of other goddesses, of mortals, of people past Thyrsus, just like I already had.
I finally nodded. “I accept, Mother.”
“Then I name you Dea Soteira, the Saving Goddess, the Light of Battle, Sword-Sister, the Savior of Land and Beasts.”
Marshes and Swamps by Mia Bosna, from the Journey To Rewilding oracle deck. I found out about it via this Tumblr post.
Skathos was not an island defined by its flowers. Within a mile of Hythonia’s cave, everything was completely petrified due to her status as an ancient gorgon and avatar of Pharika. And beyond that mile, besides her sister’s garden, the land merely grew wild and according to its own whims and desires. Even in Gorgia, gardens were small and usually filled with vegetables and herbs rather than flowers. This was why the appearance of flowers at the entrance of Hythonia’s cave was so notable.
The ancient gorgon leaned down and scooped up the white six-petaled flowers. It was obvious that they were enchanted, preserving the scent. She didn’t recognize what kind of flower it was, but she had never paid much attention to flower types before regardless. Hythonia ran her clawed thumb across one of the petals and smiled despite herself. There was something so...romantic and simple about her courtship of the shadow kami at the moment.
The snakes crowning her head hissed and wiggled in small circles as the shadows deepened around her. But she smiled, because she knew exactly who it was. “Haruko,” she murmured, turning back on her coils to where she expected the spirit to appear.
The golden mask of the ancient kami manifested from the deepest shadows, followed by the skeletal limbs emerging from beneath her umbral cloak. She raised her hands and signed. It was a sharp gesture, a letter sign darting forward like a striking serpent. “Hythonia.”
Hythonia reached out and cupped the “cheek” of Haruko’s mask with a clawed hand. “It’s just us tonight,” she murmured. “No city, no family members, no witnesses or people to be mindful of. Shall we make the most of it?”
Haruko did not bother with another sign. Instead, the kami gently grasped Hythonia’s wrist and tilted her mask into the gorgon’s palm. Though the golden mask itself was featureless, Hythonia recognized the gesture as a mimicry of a kiss.
Hythonia chuckled and pressed her forehead to the “forehead” of Haruko’s mask. She intended to see just how much they would learn about each other. “I agree,” she whispered.
The shadows curled in to embrace her. In turn, her coils curled around skeletal limbs.
Skathos was not an island defined by its flowers. Within a mile of Hythonia’s cave, everything was completely petrified due to her status as an ancient gorgon and avatar of Pharika. And beyond that mile, besides her sister’s garden, the land merely grew wild and according to its own whims and desires. Even in Gorgia, gardens were small and usually filled with vegetables and herbs rather than flowers. This was why the appearance of flowers at the entrance of Hythonia’s cave was so notable.
The ancient gorgon leaned down and scooped up the white six-petaled flowers. It was obvious that they were enchanted, preserving the scent. She didn’t recognize what kind of flower it was, but she had never paid much attention to flower types before regardless. Hythonia ran her clawed thumb across one of the petals and smiled despite herself. There was something so...romantic and simple about her courtship of the shadow kami at the moment.
The snakes crowning her head hissed and wiggled in small circles as the shadows deepened around her. But she smiled, because she knew exactly who it was. “Haruko,” she murmured, turning back on her coils to where she expected the spirit to appear.
The golden mask of the ancient kami manifested from the deepest shadows, followed by the skeletal limbs emerging from beneath her umbral cloak. She raised her hands and signed. It was a sharp gesture, a letter sign darting forward like a striking serpent. “Hythonia.”
Hythonia reached out and cupped the “cheek” of Haruko’s mask with a clawed hand. “It’s just us tonight,” she murmured. “No city, no family members, no witnesses or people to be mindful of. Shall we make the most of it?”
Haruko did not bother with another sign. Instead, the kami gently grasped Hythonia’s wrist and tilted her mask into the gorgon’s palm. Though the golden mask itself was featureless, Hythonia recognized the gesture as a mimicry of a kiss.
Hythonia chuckled and pressed her forehead to the “forehead” of Haruko’s mask. She intended to see just how much they would learn about each other. “I agree,” she whispered.
The shadows curled in to embrace her. In turn, her coils curled around skeletal limbs.
The stylus tapped on the tablet to the rhythm of its own song. Instead of following the choir chants of the nearby church, it followed an older lullaby that was once heard through the shell of an egg.
Malkonia leaned back on her coils as she looked down at the stone tablet. She was doing a pretty good job of writing with her left hand now. The season on the ship, the Majesty of Twilight, alongside High Marshal Celino Guitirre’s other lessons during that time had done a lot to help her. She slithered with her remaining shoulder squared and a new confidence in her melee practice. While she still carried the xiphos she received in Skophos, it had been moved to her back while sitting, and on her right hip now sat her own rapier. She had woken up recently to find the weapon – a beautifully crafted and balanced weapon of a strange dark green metal for the hilt and a strange dark red metal for the blade – sitting on the window of the room she was staying in.
Her aunt Menea was still tending to things in Alta Torrezon alongside Pontifex Mavren Fein, though she also maintained constant contact with Captain Lannery Storm. Her mother Hythonia had returned through the Omenpath to Skathos. And Malkonia was now deciding where her future would lead her.
But to do that, she needed to look back first.
Malkonia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She metaphorically slithered back in time through her lessons – the training drills on the Majesty of Twilight, the new stability and posture adjustments she had picked up from losing her right arm, the healing magic she had channeled recently. The swordsmanship training from Guitirre in particular had stuck with her, and she drilled herself constantly on it. It had gotten to the point where her aunt shooed her out of the building with some of the greener paladins to go train together just to get her nerves out.
Malkonia’s hand settled on the hilt of the rapier. Yes, she was now confident in her ability to use this. It wasn’t like fighting with a xiphos, but it didn’t have to be. It benefited from the speed a gorgon naturally had better than a xiphos did, and now the weapon could be saved for if she needed something with more strength behind it.
And her work in triage on the ship had given her more confidence in healing. She may not be able to command the power granted by her grandmother, but she could slam healing magic into someone if needed and she knew all about cleaning and disinfecting wounds. She had exercised and expanded her skills in healing ills and pains. She was still learning, of course, but she knew what she was doing.
Even still, when she tried to stand fully in her confidence, her mind yanked her back to the reason she had lost her arm to begin with. That unnaturally clean white leather armor. Those boots that didn’t collect dirt and sand. That unnaturally pale skin. That matted and choppy hair and ugly, patchy beard.
Those completely blank yellow eyes that glowed without irises or pupils to be seen. The wells of power that didn’t seem normal, even by Therosian standards.
So this is why I felt such evil around this island. Although you seem a bit…small to count, little monster.
She carefully set her stylus down next to the tablet. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew that she would not win if she encountered that planeswalker again. But with her grandmother as her witness, she would give them hell to such a degree that the High Marshal would be proud of her.
She had failed when Hythonia left Skathos under her protection as stand-in steward. So clearly, she needed to find some way to become stronger, to prepare for planeswalkers and other powerful beings that would threaten her home. Or maybe protecting Skathos wasn’t her role? She had assumed it was, just because that’s what her mother was teaching her to do. Maybe she needed to learn something else, and stewardship of Skathos would be a job for later in her life?
She wished she knew more about the prophecy that her aunt said they were both involved in. She wanted to know if she could avoid it, or at least put it off.
She took a deep breath and rose from the desk. She crossed to the window and looked out over Alta Torrezon. Other planes were beautiful, entirely unlike Theros. She had accompanied Mavren on his journey, she had made it from Theros to Thyrsus to Torrezon. She had visited more planes than she ever imagined, all within a short amount of time. She wanted to see as much as she could, to learn as much as she could.
She turned and began slithering to the door. She needed to speak with her aunt.
And within her heart, something tentatively spread its wings.
“Hmph. The third round of uninvited guests in as many days. Well, hold still, and I’ll-”
“I don’t think so, witch.”
With a flick of his wrist, the new arrival summoned chains of light to bind the sorceress before she could enact her curse. Startled by the sudden display of magic, she spat angrily at the man, while surrounded by her previous swine victims.
“Hixus! I should’ve known!”
“Hello, Joanna,” smirked the prison warden. “Still cursing trespassers, I see?”
“Not just trespassers, warden! Warriors, seeking to attack me!”
“Attack you…” Hixus arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Surely not for cursing their fellows?”
“No! Or, well…I’m not sure.”
“And why is that?”
“Because-” Joanna winced as she struggled, in vain, against Hixus’s chains of light. “Because they fought over who would get to fight me!”
“…Oh?”
The bonds around Joanna’s arms loosened ever so slightly. Not enough to escape, but enough for her to gesticulate as she explained, “Yes! Men came to besiege my home. Then a flight of sphinxes came and scattered them.”
“And, I don’t suppose you’ve cursed any sphinxes lately, hmm?”
“No!” Joanna grinned as her bonds grew even looser. “Well, not until today.”
“So, those sphinxes are…these boars?” Hixus turned, and looked to the swine that still surrounded him and Joanna.
“Yes…!” Joanna tore herself free of the steadily loosening restraints. She waggled her fingers, already preparing a spell for Hixus. “And now you-”
“Well. It seems like you actually were just defending yourself…this time.”
Joanna paused, silent, but with a spell still prepared in her hands.
“I apologize for my harsh action.”
“…Do you, now?”
“I do. I suppose I’ll leave you to your…livestock. That is, of course, unless we have some other business…?”
“Uh. No!” Joanna immediately dispelled her prepared magic and hid her still-glowing hands behind her back. “No problem here, warden!”
“Good,” Hixus smirked, back still turned. “Congratulations, by the way, on finally getting to hex a sphinx.”
A human woman startled at the rough voice suddenly close behind her. She turned from her gardening work, and was forced to crane her neck to meet the gaze of a muscular, armed centaur looming over her.
“Uh. Hello. Thank you. And, I have a name, you know.”
“As do I. I am Stella. What is yours?”
“Oh, right. Uh. I’m Valerie.”
“Well met, Valerie. You keep a good garden.”
“Oh! Thank you!” Finally, the gardener began to relax. She gestured to the lush plant life around her and Stella. “I worked very hard for it.”
“Yes. Nylea must be proud.”
Valerie tilted her head in puzzlement. “Nylea, you say?”
“Yes. You must worship Nylea, to be maintaining such a garden, no?”
“Uh. No. I worship Karametra.”
Stella blinked slowly. “Who?”
“Karametra. God of harvests!”
“…Who?”
“Another nature goddess, like your Nylea?”
“You-” Stella stared, bewildered, at her verdant surroundings. “How can two gods represent the same thing?”
“I don’t know. Different…emphasis, maybe? You’re definitely a little more wild looking than I am. And I take it, you don’t have a garden?”
“No.” Stella nodded to herself, slowly at first but quickly gaining confidence. “I suppose two gods can have the same focus. Nature, and all that entails.”
“Exactly! So, we don’t have to fight…right?”
“Of course not!” Stella exclaimed. “Why would we fight?”
“Well, you’re armed. So…”
Stella’s eyes widened. “Do you not carry a weapon?”
“No. Why would I? I am but a gardener.”
“Nylea teaches us…” Stella sighed. “Perhaps our two gods are not so alike, after all.”
“W-Why would I need to fight?” Valerie asked, oblivious.
[They’re both worshipping different gods but still call on devotion to green!]
He doesn't know how long he had been walking, wandering, following that stubborn tug and pull in his very being. He doesn't know for how long it had taken for him to see the surface again, nor why he was back, nor how. He was gone, then he was not.
He was surrounded by jungle. The light of the sun was just hitting the sky. He could not feel its warmth. He had no flesh to feel it with.
All he knew is that he had to get back. To make sure she was safe, that they were all safe. He had the terrible feeling that something was wrong, utterly so. He must right a deadly wrong. He must make sure they were safe. That she was safe.
He needed to get back. To follow that pull.
But how?
He didn't know. All he did know that he had to keep going. Keep… moving. Everything felt… distant. Not quite numb, simply not there. But he was walking, he thought. He had to climb at one point to get here, to see the sun again.
The sun…
He remembered chasing the sun. A different sun. A fabled one. Brighter than bright, one that would scour away sins and… and…
And now it was gone. That sun was gone, long gone now, but something else was here. Something… no, someone, yes, someone was here now, someone who was a savior, a savant, someone who could save them, someone who… who…
Who he… could not quite name. But the rose upon his armor was connected to them. To.. to her.
She? Was it her? Was it… oh, blessings of the… Why couldn't he…?
He paused. No. She was someone different. She needed to be found, to be made safe. No, no, the… the Blessed One did not require him, not now… not until he made sure others were safe, were alive, were not… not like he was now.
He had to move. To go, to find someone, anyone to help him. Help him find her, help him find them, the survivors, to understand what this wrongness was, to help him remember…
… remember who he was. Why he was moving the way he did, why he was the way he was, he needed to understand, to know, why didn't he know? How could he not know? He was of importance, obviously, but… but who was he?
He found one answer in the startled looks of the pale faces that stared at him as he finally broke through the high vegetation. It was stammered to him through frightened lips.
"Director?"
He responded with the only thing that came to mind;
"Where is she?"
The sight of a dead man walking was enough to unnerve even the most steely of paladins that still occupied Queen's Bay. The echo -- the spirit, the remnant, among plenty of other whispered names he had been accruing in his short stay -- wandered while someone was getting answers for him.
He knew his name now. Bartolomé del Presidio, the deputy director -- formerly -- of the Queen's Bay Company. Other aspects of his personhood were fuzzed, indistinct. It was the same feeling he had when standing too close to one of the braziers full of incense at a sermon.
Although, he noted, he could no longer smell. Or feel, really.
A set of finely dressed merchants approached him, all large, formless clothing with intricate patterning and impressive enough facial hair. One came forward, offering a low bow to him as he did so.
"We believe we have the information you are seeking, good sir," he said. "You seek the girl who came to us with the warning?"
"Yes," the spirit said, straightening a little. "Have you found her? Is she safe?"
"That we do not know, my goodly sir," he said, holding a rolled set of papers. The nonchalance in which he said it was infuriating. "All we do know is that the one you seek did give us the warning, which we did ferry to Torrezon shortly thereafter. It did not do us much good, however."
"What do you mean?" Bartolomé asked. He took a step forward. Some of the entourage stepped back. "What has happened?"
"You mean to say --" the merchant stopped himself, chuckling. Again, it was enough to rile him. "Of course you wouldn't, you've been deceased, my good sir. No, our home is at war once more."
"With whom?"
"With itself, of course," the merchant said, brushing out his thicker overcloak. Given the rising heat of day, Bartolomé was surprised he wasn't sweating enough to fill the Deoro. "As I said, the warning was too little, and too late."
Bartolomé was stunned a moment. He staggered a half-step, his mind whirring. So the schism has finally happened, he thought. The Church is cracking. My death meant nothing.
The merchant who approached him must've noticed how distraught he was. "We can assure you that your family-"
"What of them?"
"--has been very well taken care of by the Company," the merchant finished a little imperiously. "As far as we know, they are safe."
A little comfort. He squared his shoulders a little. Not all is yet lost. "Thank you," he said. He then looked to the open docks at one end of the settlement, casting his eyes at the horizon. The merchant was continuing to speak to him, but the words were falling on deaf ears. He was beginning to feel a pull, hard and distinct.
Come to me, something whispered to him. Rejoice with your kindred.
The merchant was trying to get his attention. He balled his hands into fists and took a step forward, disappearing into the open air.
A cavern, slicked with ice greeted him. Had he the flesh to feel it, he knew he'd be shivering. It was quite different to the warmer climes that he had trekked through just to make it back to the surface again.
At least there weren't goblins and gnomes and all sorts of myriad insects and other skittering creatures to greet him.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of other skittering things, but those things had wings and tiny eyes and were trying to convince him that they had a kinship.
He had been drawn here, and he wasn't alone. There were others like him. Spirits, shades, echoes.
They were being drawn like moths to fire. Something had called them here. Bartolomé understood what it was, and doubtless the others down here did too. It was the very thing he had died in vain to try and prevent from ever digging its claws into his home. But now it was trying to greet him and all the others with open wings, with promises of power and freedom, with promises of all things being right and proper according to his whims.
Heresy, blasphemy, and lies, all of it. But he would do as he did initially on that fateful journey into the Core of Paradise, into his grave; he would bear witness, be out of the way, be unassuming until the time was right to fight back.
The caverns were filled with thousands of bats. Demons lurked and moved among the shadows. They whispered in languages that Bartolomé should not understand, yet he did.
Welcome. Welcome, brother.
Welcome.
Freedom is at hand, brother. Welcome.
If he had a brain left somewhere, it'd feel as though something was snaking around it. He hid his intent as well as one could.
He saw traitors. Some of whom he recognized -- there was Albina, someone he served with on a handful of tours before the unification, alongside Fausto, not too far away from her -- and many whom he did not. He saw humans, some of them thralls, others nothing more than hapless peasantry that didn't have enough hands raised to protect them.
He had to keep himself in check. They would be mourned, and they would be most properly avenged. There was nothing good he could do for them now.
His eyes lingered on the traitors. Their bodies were warped, made wrong, blasphemies written into their very flesh now. They smiled and laughed as though they were not bringing ruin to their own home and people.
The main event was about to begin. Shadows and darkness gathered in the center of a massive chamber, and out of it came the incarnated form of butchery, savagery, and madness itself.
Welcome my children, it whispered to them all. Welcome to our new kingdom.
Screeching and cheers went up around the cavern, enough to be deafening. Bartolomé kept his face as neutral as he could. A good skill he picked up when he was becoming more accustomed to dealing with nobilites and merchants.
Soon, my errant daughter shall fall, and after her shall the people of the accursed sun, it went on. There was more chaotic cheering. Soon, very soon, all that light once touched shall be ours, as is our right!
Now that caused a stir. He could hear the beating of weapons on stone and fists on armor.
Privately, he formed the sign of the rose in one hand. He felt a few pairs of eyes staring at him soon after. He stared right back.
If we are to accomplish this, the whispers continued, then we will need strength. We will need only our most daring and strong for this conquest. That is why I call to you, as I call to all of my most worthy children.
More beating of weapons and armor.
Thanks to our hidden weapon, we know precisely where our erring brethren are going to be and how they intend to strike at us, the beast at the center of the cavern went on. My Antifex already has begun making designs for all of you. You will not be alone -- more will follow in the nights to come. We will stand as an army that is greater than any of flesh and metal that they can throw at us. We shall stand as an army immortal, an army of death, an army greater than any that this plane has seen before.
Something was creeping closer to Bartolomé. He remained standing and focused.
Is something wrong, brother? a demon asked, right in his ear.
"No," he answered. "Aside from you interfering with the words of our lord and master."
The demon pulled back, folding its wings in a display of apology, before it went on. If the thing at the center of the cavern noticed, it did not make a show of it.
There was plenty more grandstanding and encouragement and blood-stirring. The others in the cavern were eating it up. It made him sick. Surely, he couldn't be the only one who wasn't agreeing with this. But there were too many that were.
His mind began to click even as the Antifex began to speak. He was surprised at how... strangely normal she looked. Glamours? Did she reject the daemonification of the others? He was keeping track of locations she was outlining, of their own movements, anything and everything that could be of use later. They already had the compromised plans of the Legion -- how did that happen? The beast mentioned a 'hidden weapon'. Something to bring up later once he was out of here -- so he would return to the Legion with the plans of the enemy.
A draw wouldn't be pretty, but it was better than letting the enemy win. He had learned that several times while sitting on one side of a regicide board.
Some of the traitors were beginning to rally a number of the collected spirits to their sides. The demons were moving in to help. Bartolomé was going to be corralled like a sheep.
So he let them. Fleeing now would do nothing. He needed to remain beneath notice, and already he was worried he roused too much suspicion. He had to set things right. He had to make sure his death mattered. That was one of the most ignoble things to suffer; a meaningless and unremembered demise.
So he would wait. He would watch. And when the time came, he'd finally raise his arms in defiance to strike.
Revenant, they were calling him now.
Shade. Spiteful One. All sorts of titles he began to accrue.
Sometimes the names were spoken with reverence, other times with fear. He didn't care. All that mattered to him was the rebalancing of debt.
Bodies of traitors and the stolen and trapped essence of the dead and damned would be left by the gates of various bastions and at the walls of cities, as well as pinned warnings.
YOU HAVE TURNED ON YOUR FAITH, AND SO I HAVE TURNED ON ALL OF YOU.
REPENT AND YOU MAY YET BE SPARED THE WRATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS AND THE HOLY.
No one suspected him. No one expected him.
He was dead, gone, he was no great champion nor hero even in life. He was a paladin and soldier turned mercantile broker.
He walked the fields of his homelands by night, alone, going to where he felt himself being pulled hardest. From there, his job was simple; take as many as he could.
Unwinding the very aspects of the traitors, the ties to their heathen and debaucherous god, was made far easier when you were now formed as part of that essence. Tearing their very souls from their flesh had been a delicate and difficult thing to learn at first, but now he was doing it with a very practiced ease.
It was only a handful each night, but that was better than nothing. His heart broke when he realized the gravity of what he was doing, but he steeled himself against feeling such pity when they were the ones visiting destruction upon their home first. Of course, they wouldn't see it that way -- and they plead for him to listen to their perspective often -- and he found himself caring less and less as the nights wore on.
He made sure he had no witnesses. No one to linger, no one to breathe a warning and ferry it and get himself undone as he was doing to these traitorous bastards.
That was easy enough. He was able to make himself into a watchman and scout. The disappearances? Too many Legionnaires in the area. He fled at the first sign of them to give warning, but they would be gone by the time he retrieved reinforcement. He'd get chastised for his fleetfooted nature, of course, but never suspected of wrongdoing.
He spread himself as far across the continent as he could to avoid it for as long as possible. He knew it'd catch up with him, but he wanted to make sure the enemy would already have paid in droves by that time.
And yet, the whispers of a "revenant" still went up through the ranks. Some were worried the Blessed Saint had found a way to ultize echoes and shades in a yet-unknown manner. Perhaps she had been able to hijack a portion of their god's power?
Bartolomé wished that was the truth. Perhaps they had developed new techniques in regards to utilizing shades. He didn't know. All he did know was that he had to keep moving, keep working, keep spreading unease and fear in the ranks.
There was something more he had to do in order to properly atone.
The warning from Amalia had come too late, so he would ensure his own warnings came early. These, too, would be anonymous. Unsigned letters appearing on the desks of captains and commanders, as many as he could find close to where he had been "assigned", started turning up. Murmurs would travel up the chain fast.
In quieter nights, when he could wander alone, he sometimes heard the chattering and knew it'd be enough.
Even if no one knew it was him, he would be happy to perish with the knowledge his home would be protected and safe. That his family would be safe and sound.
That, wherever she was, Amalia would be safe and sound. That girl didn't deserve all of this, no more than his own daughter had.
Bartolomé looked to the sky that was beginning to lighten. Day was approaching. It meant the rest of the traitors would begin fleeing back to their darker and danker hiding spots, and that he would have to join them, too.
He looked at the tiny silvered jar he held, feeling the undying wrath and hatred of the latest victim of his own internal crusade from within. He took a step back and threw it over a stony wall, hearing it thunk off of a bit of armor. He was gone before the confused soldier could find the strange assailant.
He would be back at holy dusk, as he always would be. There were more souls to reap, more unheard prayers to hear, more hope to give to the hopeless. One bastard at a time, one night at a time, he'd continue for as long as he had.
And until he was caught, he had a veritable eternity to make them pay.
That damnable thing. That damnable jar, containing that damnable man. Why couldn't he just... decide? Why couldn't he just commit to a course of action? Why did he hesitate?
Afutue. He just couldn't. And it was driving him mad that he couldn't.
Night after night it remained, night after night did he speak with the spirit trapped inside. He had acknowledged that the man he once knew and loved was long since gone the moment he seized that damnable journal and went off on that hunt, whispering and preaching about the strange madness that had seized him.
In it, Mavren recognized a similar misguided altruism that had guided him toward Ixalan, the Immortal Sun, and the Blessed Saint. That want to fix the problems of home, the want to ensure that Torrezon would live on in peace and continue to prosper, to help usher in a beautiful golden age again. Faith had been atrophying within the continent ever since he was a child, let alone a true man of faith.
He understood it. But he did not condone it.
Death and divine nightmares came for them all now. An eight-winged harbinger of the end of things, one he venerated as its prophet and herald.
Hadn't his faith in it been waning in recent nights?
The thought was one he had been mulling over again and again when his mind was given the space between the million other tiny obligations he had. Speaking with the Kamigawans, placating Her Majesty and the baying of the noble families, trying to tame the famine and ensure that more and more of the farmland was being made workable, reaching out to other planes to learn of their peoples and to issue forth decrees and declarations for other diplomatic teams or to invite diplomats to Torrezon, if it was safe enough...
And that was just his responsibilities. Just thinking about balancing all of that on top of what the Blessed Saint was also tending to... it made his wings shiver.
But whenever he got a moment, he tried to think. Was there progress? Was it just... imagined? Was he being desperate? He didn't know. And it wasn't as though he could talk to anyone about this. What would he even say? "I am holding the Arch-Heretic but I am unsure if I am simply being led astray by his slow change of heart because he's desperate for me to love him again?" That would be a surefire way to have himself investigated and potentially voted to be removed.
And Torrezon did not need that right now.
He was trying to lead by example. But oh, this damnable thing. This damnable, damnable man. Why couldn't he just let go already? It made his mind and heart turn into tight knots. By the light of the Sun, Saint, and stars, he hated this.
Especially since he seemed like he was changing. There was regret in his words that hadn't been there before. There was melancholy and longing. But he didn't know if he could trust that damnable demon not to be fooling him. He couldn't.
And what made it worse was that he understood this. It made things feel genuine even when it could very well not be.
So why? Why? Why torment himself like this? He didn't know. He couldn't say. Or he could, but he was loathe to admit it.
How could he admit that there was a part of his heart and soul that longed for him nearly as much?
He couldn't. He wouldn't, because it could not be allowed to be true.
Yet it was. When Mavren saw him, that damnable and most pitiful thing, he could see the echoes of the man whom he had secreted away with for decades. He saw the years of secrecy and trust the two had built, and he saw the scars of it even in their small exchanges together. They were always the same sort of arguments. One trying to get the other to give in. Mavren had the upper hand, of course, and was trying to use that to nudge him in the right direction.
If he could repent, if he could fully and wholly forsake this god and admit that all he had done was just misguided and in vain...
No. He was just chasing a fantasy. He wouldn't, he was too devoted to that damnable bat.
But maybe he wasn't. Although he would speak with reverence, there was a greater devotion in his words when he would speak in the quiet hours of the night and share a memory the two had. Those beautiful, quiet, and intimate moments between them.
"It was our fifth anniversary. You were here, stirring everyone with your faith and devotion, while I was out afield, doing what we were told and believed was holy work. I still remember the letters you sent to me. I remember how surprised I was that they hadn't been read, especially with how eloquent you were with your wording. I kept them at my bedside on especially cold and lonely nights."
It dug at him worse than his hunger in the waning hours before the blessed madness of a Blood Fast. Saint and Sun, he felt like he was slipping back into that madness despite being relatively well-fed.
"I still have the gift you made for me when I was a century and a half old. Or, well... I did. I don't know if my old things were burned in the completion of my damnatio memoriae or not. I would not be surprised if they were. But I kept it in a chest hidden beneath my bed. Both it and the book of poems you made for me. A wonderful collection, Mavren. It inspired me to try writing my own, even though I never was the wordsmith you are. I suppose that is why you ascended to the position of Pontifex over someone like Theodors."
He hated his honeyed words. Long had he heard the silvered tongues of poisoned snakes throughout his lifetime, and he could always steel himself against them, their blasphemies, and their lies. And yet, that damnable little man stuck in that damnable little jar could still get to him. He hated it, he hated it, oh how he loathed it with every fiber of his being. He hated that he felt longing and misery, he hated that he felt the temptation to give in and embrace him one last time because he knew it would grow into many "last times" because of course it would and --
He clutched at his head. Maddening. It was maddening! He knew what the right thing was. Yet he couldn't do it, damn it all, he just... couldn't. There was still too much love there.
He remembered too well that final night between them, before all of this fell apart.
"I want to heal us. I want to help us, Mavren, we're suffering, we're starving, the stupid nobles are at our throats and Her Majesty is being more rigid than ever, but I think I have found something to help-- Just, please, listen to me -- the Saint has brought nothing but discourse and discord to our people, claiming we butchered her memory, but -- no, please, just listen to me, please, I know how we can be whole again. I know it, and I know it seems insane, but I am begging you, know that I come to you first because I love you and I want you to come with me. Please.
Please."
The look of desperation. Longing. Love. Fear. Conviction. Madness. Zeal. He saw every single aspect of him that night, and Mavren knew he had to turn away.
He had listened. He had let him rant and preach and rave, he spoke about that forbidden journal as though it held all the answers and wasn't anything more than the travelogue of a deluded man later canonized more for his acts of heroism and apparent piety rather than any holy theological writings. His writings had been redacted and sequestered with good reason, they were just... raving.
Yet that damnable book was what was being held as the ultimate truth. Mavren saw it for the falsehoods it had held, and now that damnation was hanging over all of them like the macuahuitl of the Sun Empire.
He should surrender the jar. Give it over to the condemners to deal with as they pleased.
But he loved him still.
And so his hand stayed.
He hated going around in circles like this. He let out a deep sigh, his eyes looking to that damnable thing. The man inside was quiet. He didn't rest. He didn't need to. But he still remembered Mavren and knew when he needed quiet.
He hated that. He hated that he still showed care. He couldn't trust him but he wanted to, he desperately wanted to. He just... he just wanted to let him out once just to end this game. Just to see what he would do. Just to see if his god would claim him or forsake him again or... or just... anything.
It had been weeks. Weeks of his resolve holding out. Weeks of not letting the dam break.
Mavren looked at the jar. The spirit within was looking back. He thought he saw something in his face. Acceptance? Hope? He didn't know.
Mavren looked back through the window over his desk. He drew the curtains. He stood.
He reached for the jar.
Still, the man within said nothing. No pleading tonight.
Because he already knew what was happening. He already knew that, in a sense, he had won.
Mavren's voice was soft. He didn't need to make threats, they had already both heard them at least a hundred times by now. He just... did it.
A soft, radiant purple glow enveloped his room. The jar was set aside. He knew the words to put him back, knew the way to bend and weave the power and conviction his faith had given him to slam him right back if he tried anything-
He felt the softest sensation brushing his face as the apparition reached up to cup his cheek. He knew that the confliction that had been destroying him would be more than apparent.
He looked into the eyes of his dead lover. He felt his heart melt just a little, his guard lowered but a fraction.
They came closer. Not a word was spoken. None had to be said.
Their lips met. It was strange. He had expected it to feel as though he were kissing the air, but... no. He could feel him. It was not like it was in life, but it was... something.
They pulled apart.
The candle burned beyond its first candlemark.
And that damnable, horrible, heretical man would be back in the jar in time for the candle to burn past the second.
Spring had come at last. The cold ache of winter receded, letting the new yellow-green growths on the trees finally color the hills and mountains that clove Torrezon in half. The rivers were running high, new life was growing and blooming everywhere, and the sun was shining.
Arturo had received a small bonus stipend a short while back that he had been saving for this trip. They would need a proper arrangement of horses, hearty and trail-tested ones at that, in order to carry everyone and everything through the mountains. He had invited the High Marshal to come join him before he set off back home. Guitirre had been a little surprised at the invitation, but decided to take him up on the offer.
"A few weeks out in nature will do you good," Arturo had said to him. From the look on his face, the older vampire couldn't disagree.
He made sure to stock up on plenty of supplies -- tents, things to sleep on, various tools, a number of maps, all kept either bound to saddlebags or things that would need to be carried. Arturo had planned for at least thirty to accompany them on this trip, just to be safe. It was going to be a long journey.
Lazaro had been a bit hesitant to leave his own duties behind. There was much to be done, much to plan, but Arturo had been incredibly insistent, and so the priest finally caved. The paladin knew he'd be thanking him later. Hopefully. So long as the others didn't get into too much trouble, of course.
The paladin did compromise on stopping in a small village on the eastern side, after they crossed back over, just so he could send out a bit of paperwork that he'd be bringing along with him. He thought that Lazaro might've been granted more leeway now that the bat was gone, even temporarily, but apparently he was wrong in that assumption.
Regardless, he also had made some arrangements to ensure that the animals were being watched. Hibana would be accompanying, but on leash. Otherwise he knew the wolf would simply run off and get too lost on his own. Luckily, getting the leash to be nearly as long as his house was wide wasn't of too much trouble, so he could still run enough. Aster, Guitirre's mastiff, seemed not to like him very much. The High Marshal told her to hush her whining and growling.
He went through one last bit of counting to make sure that everything was ready before he went to go call Vasro to begin grabbing their guests and fellow adventurers.
Arturo looked incredibly proud of himself, even if his husband gave him a bit of a tired look. The paladin ruffled his nephew's hair before he went and mounted his horse, taking up Hibana's leash as he did so. He then swept out an arm in a wide, welcoming gesture.
"Welcome to my homelands," he proclaimed. "Over the next week or so, we are going to be exploring its most impressive natural splendors right on the edge of its most beautiful season, next to that of the harvest."
"And right before it gets too hot to properly function in armor," Calisto said quietly, fixing his hair. He had come with his armors just in case, but beneath his beautiful Kamigawan silks was a set of Kamigawan-inspired armor. His Legion gear was brought moreso to show that he was still loyal to his home.
"There should be just enough horses for everyone," Arturo continued, "so go ahead and saddle up. Even if you do not know how to ride, they will be in a sort of train, so you will probably not need to. When it becomes more necessary, you can ride with someone more experienced if there is room in the saddle for it, or you can try and stay on the carts, but they are small for a reason."
"You should also give them the warning, lad," Guitirre said, wrapping his reins around his fist. Arturo blinked at him, pouting a little.
"There will also be the small chance that we come across some hostile enemies on this journey. But I do mean small," he said, raising a finger. "I have taken great pains to ensure that this journey goes through remote enough pathways and goes near what is obviously held by the Legion and not traitors. However, the chance does exist. In the event we are ambushed or we cross paths with them, we," he gestured to himself, Lazaro, and Guitirre "will do our best to protect you and help direct you to safety. Flee if you cannot fight. At each encampment, I will tell you where our muster point will be in the event of such a thing happening."
Once Silentsign had been yoinked, Koda had immediately positioned himself by his father's side. Either he or Haruko were signing everything to keep the old nezumi assassin in the loop. Silentsign was observing the horses and already found one that he liked, because it let him feel tall.
There was also the itty bitty issue of the massive frog-kami with some mushrooms growing from it. The mushrooms seemed to be harmless ones at least, but it was still a bit unnerving. Regardless, Koda's shoulders had squared like they usually did when encountering a kami that wasn't Haruko.
Said giant frog was with Satoru and Huck's group, which also included Priscilla, Oppira-Jiyuu, and...the surviving Mukotai. Tatsunari in particular was doing better than he had been when Koda and Guitirre dragged him out of the Futurist building - he had put on some weight and some muscle, and the harsher edges of the skin graft he had been forced to have had smoothed out. He, Kotose, Quicksign, and Steelblade were all wearing clothing more fitting to Thunder Junction, just like Satoru and Huck.
Koda grinned at Satoru. "I heard you yelp," he teased his eldest brother. "Did Dad really get the drop on you?"
"You don't exactly wake up expecting a six-foot-whatever vampire paladin to drop out of an Omenpath behind you and grab you," Satoru said, rolling his eyes. He sounded good-natured about it, at least.
Tatsunari was sitting on Keimi's back, looking a bit awkward to be there. Keimi croaked her own greeting to Koda, who responded by offering her a respectful nod from the back of his horse.
Arturo did a brief head count, just to make sure they had everyone one last time.
"Alright. The first base camp will see us at the foot of the mountains by nightfall," he said. "By tomorrow, we will summit one of the lower peaks, and then cross over to the other side. I've rode this path several times before, so I will keep us steady. Is everyone ready?"
Once everything was settled and accounted for, the small caravan was off. The horses plodded along at a slower pace than Arturo would've wanted -- being kept in garrison had him wanting to go full gallop -- but they were at a good enough speed to cover good distance as they needed.
Torrezon and its foothills were now in full bloom. New leaves painted the countryside in a vibrant hue of yellow-green, the leaves not yet fully matured, as well as carried a delightful scent of blossoming flowers on the wind. It carried with it a form of peace and tranquility that seemed strange for a land of hungering wartorn vampiric knights.
The path they rode was an old one, hardly more than an elephant's path that wound its way closer to the great Deoro mountain range. The mountains themselves still showed some trees that were bare among their bases, the craggy tops still snow-covered and cold. The peak they would summit was not nearly as high as the others. Arturo knew he was traveling with those who had probably never seen a mountain up close before, and so he selected one that wouldn't even have a proper treeline to it. Whether one could even call it a mountain was debatable, but regardless, it'd give them a beautiful viewpoint between the range and each half of the continent it guarded.
The horses huffed as they went along. The journey would be mostly flat until they actually climbed into the foothills proper; then it'd start to be a bit challenging. Hibana wandered near to the front of the column, occasionally sniffing at things here or there, but making sure not to get the leash too entangled or bunched as he did so. Arturo had his eye on the wolf. Guitirre was keeping Aster in saddle, mainly because he knew she wasn't accustomed to such long marching like a wolf was. The High Marshal was also quietly singing a marching song to himself as they went along.
"Torrezon, Torrezon, the final battle has begun, Torrezon…"
Calisto had selected a horse that was closer to the middle, not wanting to be too far forward or back. He felt a little awkward being back in saddle after not being in one for some time, but it was coming back to him. He also knew his uncle wasn't going to let him hear the end of it otherwise, and would probably be pulling him for some practice when he could.
Danjikisei was also getting used to being on a horse. He knew about them, and had seen horse-adjacent kami, but being on one's back was different. He wondered if the horses did not want them on their backs, but reasoned that they ought to have probably mentioned something if this were the case.
Malkonia had chosen to slither somewhat near either Guitirre or the duo of Koda and Silentsign, since she was most familiar with them. Her clawed fingers tapped out the count as Guitirre mumble-sang his marching song, learning how to follow the beat even without having the ability to sync her non-existent footsteps to them.
The Akroan hoplites formed a shield wall, just before the first of the shadowy creatures could begin pummeling against it. The barrier held, but a demon with a starry shadow flew above the melee to confront their commander directly.
“Cymede,” growled the nyxborn fiend. “I see you are determined to oppose my forces at every turn.”
“Par for the course, then, Evgenios,” smirked Cymede, before she leapt forward with a battle cry. Metal rang against metal, as Evgenios parried a sword strike with only his gauntlets.
“A bold opener, but utterly predictable. Now, let us-”
“Maaaa!”
A harsh bleat interrupted both the battle between leaders, and the larger clash between their respective forces. Everyone present turned to see a gruff-looking goat slip through a gap in the distracted soldiers’ defenses. Then, the moment passed, as one of the nightmare creatures collided against a shield and the battle began anew. Meanwhile, Evgenios and Cymede stood behind the shield wall, staring at the approaching animal.
“One of yours, I presume?” Cymede snickered, as she knelt down to pet the goat.
Evgenios pointed a claw to a particularly spindly monster attacking the phalanx. “Don’t get me started. Imagine my shock, when I discovered that that one had - adopted - the cursed thing.”
Cymede arched an eyebrow at Evgenios’s frustration. “Then, not to advocate for violence but, why not just kill it?”
“I’ve tried!” Evgenios spread both his arms and wings wide for emphasis as he spoke. “And succeeded, countless times. But every time I bring my creation back from its own mortal wounds, the goat comes with it. As though the two are bonded.”
“Perhaps it imprinted onto your monster?”
Evgenios did not even dignify this question with a response. Instead he watched as his potentially parental monster clashed with Cymede’s soldiers. “How, why, could that thing possibly…?”
[I love Woe Strider! It brings the goat with it every time it escapes, and even when stuff like Nightmare Shepherd brings it back different!]
