Ancient Sounds 5/5
AS.pt.1 AS.pt.2 AS.pt.3 AS.pt.4
Tw: Mild blood, cult
The tapping, clicking sound of Oliver’s cane on the ancient stone was the only sound the blind oliveblood heard as he navigated the dark tunnels with ease.
He wore his black ice skating uniform; an outfit he never wore on the rink. It was sleeveless, to show off his tattoo, but had a high neck. It clung to his body like a second skin, the gems splattered across it like bloodstains glittering like fire in the faint light. It matched the black band that covered his eyes. A feather-shouldered, glittering cape flowed behind him, just barely kissing the ground, where his black and silver heels walked. The golden rings on his horn were traded for black-gold, although the emerald that dangled from the tip stayed.
Faint sounds, that would have been invisible to less-trained ears, drew Oliver deeper into the underground. Deeper and deeper he went, until the smell of fresh air was all but gone.
He was walking through a long abandoned brooding cavern, left to collapse and be used by wild lusii. That had never happened, though. Instead of a home for beasts, it had become a sanctuary for much rarer creatures.
The noises grew louder, louder, until Oliver could pick out the sounds of voices, music, and the clink of glasses individually. She rounded the final bend, and entered the largest, deepest chamber.
“Master!”
“The Master has arrived!”
“The Phoenix is here! Someone fetch the other master!”
The voices of Oliver’s Black Hand made them smile.
“Good evening, my lovelies!” They cried, only to be answered with uproarious cheers. The crowd parted to let them through, only to surge forward and crowd around at the same time, the members trying to touch their leader’s cape, cane, anywhere they could reach.
Oliver purred, holding out a hand to them and letting them touch his fingers, kiss his palm and knuckles. “Hello, my dears, hello, yes!” He crooned gleefully, as if he was speaking to grubs. He blindly cupped the face of a believer, stroking their scarred and pockmarked cheek, before releasing them. Immediately, the crowd surged towards that troll, wanting to touch their face, too.
Oliver snickered, as the crowd had moved enough to let her through to her place; part of the ground was raised in a gentle ramp, up to a perch that let her oversee the entire cavern. Not that she did much of the overseeing. Still, she stopped and turned back towards the cavern, her ears doing the looking for her.
She could hear the ever-so-faint buzz of the strings of lights that were mounted along the walls and ceilings, under the music that pumped from the speakers.
The smell of food to her left indicated the secondary chamber was offering food. The sharp smell of polish told her someone had cleaned the altar and shine on the right. Incense pumped from burning orbs on the ceiling, filling the cave with the smell of spice.
Even that, though, could not cover up the smell of rot; the smell of disease and sickness that clung to nearly every one of her underlings. She could hear their wheezing breaths, their croaking words from raw throats, the fluttery, uncertain beats of their blood-pumpers. Among them, those who were not sick still smelled wrong; mutant bloods, those with extra limbs, eyes, tails, or just off colored ichor in their veins. They held up those too weak to stand as the crowd fell silent and turned to look up at their leader.
“Good evening, my brothers and sisters!” Oliver said again, beaming down at them, “It’s been much too long since we were in one another’s graces. It pained me to be away from my sweet siblings for so long, my very soul ached to be near you all again.”
There were murmurs of ascent from the congregation. Oliver simply waited for them to be silent again.
“I can feel the pain you have all suffered since we last met, my loves. As always, the shrine is open to those in need of the Slaughtering Scapegrace’s light. The bowl is out for any who can spare their caigers for their siblings, and for those who need to take coin to cover their expenses. And my ears are open, to hear your voices.
Tonight, not only will you all be graced with my presence, and the voice of our lord, but I have a very, very special treat for you. But first- where is he? Where is my most precious diamond, the second master of the Apocalyptic Blight’s grace?” Oliver held a hand out, searching, pleading.
There was shuffling movement and the sudden sound of running footsteps.
“I’m here, baby!” The loud, bellowing, gleeful voice of Oliver’s morail cried. He skidded to a stop and fell to his knees before the oliveblood, grasping their hand.
Instantly, Oliver was flushed through with the pinkest, palest adoration. That was the voice they knew all too well, a hand they knew as if it were their own.
“Welcome home, Bohwie Akshai.” Oliver breathed.
Bohwie looked up at his morail’s face and smiled, kissing their knuckles once more. He rose from his knees and embraced the oliveblood, who instantly clung to him in return, pressing their face into his chest.
“How I’ve missed you, my love.” Oliver breathed, her claws digging into his back.
“I missed you, too, Olly.” Bohwie crooned, pressing a kiss to Oliver’s hair before he pulled away.
Oliver smiled up at him, before she turned to address the watching crowd, still holding the cerulean’s hand. “My sweet siblings of darkened fingers, now I may tell you the wondrous gift I have brought for you!” She announced. There was a ripple of murmured excitement as she dug in her pocket. She pulled out an old, recently cleaned and polished, bronze pocket watch on a black chain.
He held it aloft, so that they could all see it. “Over four hundred and sixty-one solar sweeps ago, a man named Dmitri Akshai stood in these very caverns. He was the first troll to feel Neviserrath Apocriyna’s power, the first to be gifted his grace. He reached into Grimruinox, the realm of our god, and was duly embraced by the Shifting Darkness. He was named the Hierophant, for he was the leader of our band, the interpreter of our god’s word. He founded the Black Hand, so that all may be embraced by the Horrendous Black.
When Neviserrath claimed him, none were strong enough to hold our lord’s might, and the Black Hand faded into the night. Now I, with his descendant at my side, have rebirthed the Hierophant’s work!” She clutched Bohwie’s hand and held it aloft, and the watching crowd broke into a frenzy of applause and cheers.
“From the ashes and fire, as your phoenix I was born, and with the Hierophant’s blood-son at my side, we gathered you!” Oliver cried over them, “You, our greatest, strongest, and most noble of siblings! While the Empire spits upon you, buries you, and mocks you, they are blinder than even I to the power you possess! Weak as your bodies may be, your souls burn bright enough that even I can see them! Tonight, let that flame consume you!”
Descending from her perch, she walked over to the shine, pulling Bohwie with her, and laid the pocket watch on the altar as if she were laying down a newly hatched grub.
“Tonight, my siblings of blackened grace, we call back the first of our kind, the one who began it all! We hail is name, only second to Neviserrath, in the hope that he will honor us, come before us, and know of our greatness!” He cried, grinning. He turned towards Bohwie, his smile softening. “There is only one more thing we need, my love.” He said, suddenly quiet, the crowd hushing so they could hear him. Holding up Bohwie’s hand, he ran his fingers over the cerulean’s palm. “The blood of our first leader rushes through you. Would you not give but a few drops to meet him?”
Bohwie closed his hand, gently squeezing Oliver’s fingers. “For our siblings, for our god, I would let you bleed me dry, my love.” He breathed, his voice trembling with excitement. “I need only a blade to do the deed with.”
Instantly, the crowd responded. The smell of steel was sharp in the air as each of them produced their own blades and held them out to their masters.
“Use mine!”
“No, mine!”
“Mine, please!”
Bohwie giggled, giddy, and reached across the altar to take one, thanking the troll who offered it. Turning back to his morail, Oliver cupped Bohwie’s free hand in their own as Bohwie placed the knife to his palm.
With a flick of his wrist, he scored the blade across his hand, and watched as his deep blue blood beaded up, pooling in the lines of his hands.
Oliver breathed deeply, the iron tang of blood burning her lungs. Cradling Bohwie’s hand, she extended it over the altar and released him, leaving him to turn his hand. She heard the blood splatter on the stone, her breath hitching in her chest.
“The blood is on the watch, my love.” Bohwie reported, a smile in his voice, “What now?”
“Now it’s my turn.” Oliver rumbled. Bohwie stepped back, and Oliver moved to stand before the altar. He pressed his hands together as if he were praying, before he reached up and undid the ribbon around his eyes. He let it flutter to the floor and opened his sightless, black and green eyes.
Oliver placed their hands on the altar and bowed their head.
There was a silent, tense moment, all eyes on the Blind Phoenix, as the oliveblood took a deep, slow breath.
Then with a bellow, he threw back his head and slammed his hands onto the altar.
Light and noise exploded around the shrine, the roar of wind and fire consuming the Black Hand leader as the light blinded the congregation. They cried out and shielded their eyes, clapped their hands over their ears, and shied away from the brunt, almost physical force of power that burst from the altar. There were pops and cracks as the strings of lights shattered and snapped. Ceramic shards hailed from the broken incense orbs.
All of it happened in the span of a moment, before the light vanished. Torches, set in sconces around the walls, suddenly burst into flame, returning light to the cavern.
The members of the crowd hesitantly looked towards the altar again, to see a physical, black shadow manifesting on the stone. It grew thicker, more solid by the second, taking on the form of a troll. The shadow moved, rolling off the altar and standing, before the darkness that cocooned it vanished.
And there, in the flickering light of the torches’ fire, stood the Hierophant.
The elder cerulean blinked, looking around in visible confusion, as if he’d been suddenly woken.
Behind him, Oliver had pitched forward and fell to her knees, shaking and panting with exhaustion. Still, she pulled herself up and turned her head towards the older troll. Bohwie stepped closer and pulled her to her feet, letting her lean on his side.
“Dmitri Akshai,” She rasped, forcing a smile. Hierophant turned to her. “I am Oliver Maddel, your humble servant and successor to your throne. I welcome you, back among the living and among your siblings of the darkened claws.”
“Dmitri,” Bohwie began, “I am Bohwie, your descendant.”
The Hierophant looked between the two of them. “It is an honor to meet you, Bohwie Akshai, descendant.” He said. His voice was deep, rich, and firm. He bowed slightly to Bohwie, before he turned to Oliver. “But you,” He continued, glaring over the top of his glasses, “are not my successor.”
Oliver’s eyebrows rose and he stood up, able to stand without his morail now. “I do not understand, my master.”
“I am not your master, either. There is another. Neviserrath tells me they wear the robes, when you clearly do not.”
“R- robes?” Oliver repeated.
Bohwie suddenly gasped. “Musrio!” He snarled. Oliver stiffened.
“What about him?”
“Hierophant, his- his robes- they look just like Musrio’s! Only blue!”
Oliver’s mouth fell open in shock.
“Musrio?” Hierophant repeated. He closed his eyes momentarily, a blissful smile on his face. “Yes. That is his name. Musrio is the one who succeeds me. Neviserrath chose him, just as he chose me, then.”
“But- but master, surely that is a mistake! Musrio- he- he wants to be rid of us!” Oliver cried. She lurched around the altar and grabbed Hierophant’s sleeve, her face tilted up towards his, her expression pleading. “He wishes the Black Hand gone! He does not worship Neviserrath, only uses his powers like playthings! He stole our chosen child, the one who would truly hold our god’s power and change this wretched world!”
“No, Oliver.” Hierophant removed the oliveblood’s hands from his sleeve and stared down at him coolly, “It is you who plays with Neviserrath’s gifts. You were not chosen. You took your powers, did you not? Demanded our god to give them to you? You took what was not meant to be taken, only given. Musrio was gifted his powers, and his robes- the robes meant for the harbinger. There is no “chosen child”. The holy war you insist on fighting does not exist. There is only one who could ever dispel our god, but she is far, far from Alternia.”
“But- but I brought the Black Hand back from the ashes! I am the Blind Phoenix!” Oliver insisted, his voice cracking.
“The Blind Phoenix? Is that a name you chose yourself, or did Neviserrath give it to you?” Heirophant inquired, a soft, cruel smile on his face.
“I… I-”
Hierophant chuckled. He adjusted his robes and turned away, heading for the exit. “Oh, my dear Oliver Maddel. You have no idea what powers you toy with. You are ignorant, nay, stupid, to take what is not yours. Our god does not love you. You are being set up to fail.”
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EVERYONE PLEASE WELCOME BOHWIE AND DMITRI “HIEROPHANT” AKSHAI!!!
