Musket fire launched skyward. Though the crew produced a decent volume of fire, it did little to dissuade the spirit floating above the deck. Beckett Brass sighed before giving another order:
“It’s evading! Everyone below deck!”
Before the crew could heed the command, the vampiric spirit dove and abducted a musket-wielding pirate before he could reload. Brass scowled as she watched the ghost lift the panicking marksman into the air.
“Santiago. I presume it was you who butchered Leor.”
A single nod was the spirit’s only response. It drifted over the water before releasing the musketeer, who plunged into the water with a frightened yelp.
“A…ghost of many words, I see. Didn’t get your fill of screaming from the port, did you!”
“…All right, enough!”
Brass startled at the raspy, aristocratic voice emanating from beneath the spirit’s veil of smoke. “You…can speak.”
“Yes! And it’s about time I did so. Enough accusations, what with the insipid screaming!”
“The…” Brass frowned at the relative importance of the ghost’s claim. “But you did go to Leor? And, killed people?”
“Oh yes. I’m not disputing that. But screaming? Please.”
“Killing people tends to make them scream!”
“Not with the practiced work of a true killer.”
“You…well…” Brass began to scowl, but paused once she became aware of the bloodied cutlass in the scabbard on her hip. “Fine. So I’m a common killer. But then, if your killings weren’t causing the screaming, then who was I hearing through the fog?”
“Your fellow scoundrels, killing each other.”
“…Oh.”
“Yes, not every crew has quite as many scruples as yours. There’s a fair number of pure contract killers there. And many of them panicked, thanks to my attack, and turned on their allies.”
“Right. Well…you’re still a vampire!” Brass drew her sword and pointed it at Santiago in one swift motion. “Come on down if you dare, killer.”
“Such a warm invitation! And so, I will do it - for free,” Santiago quipped, as it dove.
The night sky was wide, dark, and beautiful. Smaller insects sang among the taller and untamed grasses and the branches of the trees in the nearby forest. Celino Guitirre rested his arm on the stony balcony rail. The house behind him was full of life and joy; more of his family had come to visit him while he was in the waning days of his well-earned break, all four generations now meeting under one roof.
He was not out here to be antisocial, moreso just to appreciate the beauty of the darkness. He and his elder kindred had always felt a deeper pull to the darker hours. His children also felt it, though not quite as keenly.
He could hear his youngest grandchildren running about, his grand-nieces and grand-nephews all cavorting and running and no doubt giving their parents, aunts, uncles, and grandmother a bit of a headache as they did. The youngest member of his family was still but a few months old, a great-grandchild, officially making the High Marshal ancient. Each generation had lengthened, naturally, as more families undertook the Rite and the extent of their newfound immortality was realized.
Well. Almost immortality.
He heard footsteps behind him, his ears twitching at the noise, and he turned to see one of his younger daughters coming out to join him. She was dressed in a fine and not overly decorated dress, a rose pin in her hair depicting the rose of her family. Her long hair was braided and kept neat and tucked away, the same black as the dress she wore. Her footsteps gently clacked against the stones that made up the balcony.
Celino smiled at her. She had her mother's eyes and nose, but his more squared jaw and leaner features. She had always been close with him.
"Hello, Mariela. Come to join your old man for some stargazing, have you?" he asked, making a bit of room for her. She nodded and came to the balcony, putting her hands on its edge and letting out a soft sigh.
"You are not that old," she said with a small laugh. "Mama hates when you say things like that, you know."
"Oh, I know, she hates being reminded that we're ancient," he said with a snicker. "I don't mind. It's the truth, I'm old."
"If you're old, then what does that make the Blessed Saint?"
"She gets a pass, she's practically deified," Guitirre said with a dismissive wave. "I am old for those of us who remember what it is like to be old without being a human."
"Right," Mariela said, stretching the word.
"I am old enough to forget my age."
"You're just over your 350th year, papa."
"Well," he shrugged. "Who cares beyond the third century, eh?"
Mariela shook her head in quiet exasperation. Guitirre chuckled and nudged her.
"Where's your wife?" he asked.
"She's speaking with Pelayo," she answered. Guitirre clicked his tongue.
"Fighting again?"
"I made sure to keep them away from the cards," Mariela said with a snort. She did let out another sigh. Celino put his arm around her shoulders and brought her in close.
"He wasn't saying anything, was he?" he asked quietly.
"He wasn't, no, but I heard Ileana say something nasty to Tulio," she said, crossing her arms. Guitirre made a low noise. Pelayo was one of his many sons-in-law, and Ileana was one of his grandchildren. He had come from an older, more established family where progression past antiquated mindsets was slower.
"What did she say?" Guitirre raised a brow.
"Something about him being bloodbroken," Mariela said with a scoff. "Something stupid. I don't think she meant it, she was getting upset because he was teasing her, but I still wanted to address it. But Leyre insisted, so..." she shrugged. "I am letting her handle it."
Guitirre sighed. "My heart, if you need me to step in --"
"I think we have it, papa," Mariela said, sounding a little tired. "It just... stings a little."
"Of course it does. Especially from one as young as she is," Celino said with an understanding nod.
"I was hoping we'd be past things like that," she said softly. Guitirre sighed.
"Old traditions and old habits will take a far longer time to die down, especially when those like us who live with the memory are here," he said. "But there is still so much progress that has been made. Don't let her little comments dig at you or at Tulio. I'm sure Pelayo will be understanding enough to deal with it." He kissed her cheek and gave her a reassuring pat.
"I just don't want Tulio to grow up fearing the truth about his parents," Mariela murmured.
"Ah, the lad is ready to begin his first assessments for squiredom. He's old enough to understand little needling words like that and will be ready to defend himself," Guitirre told her. "He's a feisty one already."
"He shouldn't have to," Mariela replied.
"If this were a more just world, you'd be right," the older man said, nodding. "But the very fact that he can even begin to mention that he has two wonderful and loving mothers and not put himself or you or the family into immediate jeopardy is a small miracle in and of itself. Do you remember what it was like when you first realized you were a homosexual?"
"Yes, but --"
"Do you remember what I told you about my being homosexual? How, already within a generation, the winds were starting to change?"
"But you didn't stay a homosexual, papa. You became normal," Mariela said. "You gave in to the pressure."
"In some ways I did, in others I did not," Guitirre acquiesced, tilting his head from side to side a little. "I do love your mother dearly."
"But what if you could have found another man?" Mariela asked. "It wasn't safe enough for you, so you gave in. You had to start the house proper." She paused. She had a strange look in her eye. "... have you seen other men that interested you after you got with mama?" she asked quietly.
"Now that, my heart, would be infidelitous," Guitirre said. "Whether I saw a woman or a man, I would never do that to your mother."
"I'm not saying you would necessarily," Mariela said, quickly shaking her head. "But... haven't you ever been out on campaign and you saw someone who made you hesitate, if only for a moment?"
"I have seen women of high beauty," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A few of the smaller lords we killed tried to bribe me with beautiful women."
"Papa--"
"But men?" Guitirre tilted his head again. "Perhaps there was one or two, but I've forgotten."
"You've forgotten?" Mariela tilted her chin and raised a brow at him. Oh, she was definitely his daughter, all right.
"With how many lads and lasses I've seen over my long span?" He shrugged. "I hardly remember the women who caught my eye for a moment before I reminded myself of my wife who was also afield. Let alone someone who could've gotten me in plenty of trouble back then."
"But that boy you were with --"
"That was when I was still young enough to skillfully evade questioning, my heart. Something that people as young as Tulio will hopefully never have to actually worry about," Guitirre said with a small smile. "I was able to see my Marshal be married off to a good man, and soon I'll be there to see my own new grandson do the same. The only thing he has to fear is being with an orc, but I think the winds will shift again in time."
Mariela decided to let the topic drop for a moment. Guitirre put his arm back around her.
"Have you seen other women that made you think twice?" he asked.
"Papa."
"It's only fair, my heart," he said. "You were probing for my potential infidelitous ways, so now I am curious about you."
"Before I was with Leyre, there were many women who made my heart ache," she said with a wistful sigh. "If only they had felt the same."
Guitirre chuckled. "If only," he agreed with a nod. "That is the true heartache of being the way we are, eh? But you found a wonderful woman who seems to love you dearly in the end. Enough to not only marry you, but to raise a child with you. All of that was unheard of when I was still interested in men."
Mariela had a strange look in her face again. "You might still be interested in them, you know. I have never heard of a homosexual who truly became normal and didn't still wish they could be with the ones they really longed for."
Guitirre shrugged. "Even if I were, I am married and happily so. I love the family that I and Casilda have made together, even if it means disentangling you from your nephews or nieces from time to time before you all get into a bigger fight." He smiled and caught Mariela's smile even as she scoffed at him lightly. "I did tell your mother about this."
"How did she take it?"
"I think she's still adjusting to the knowledge," he answered, putting his arm back on the balcony railing. "She's still of that older mindset, you know. I have been working to assuage her doubts about my loyalty, and I think they've worked well enough. But she was quite shocked to hear it."
"I think I would be too," Mariela said, leaning on the railing. "You never came off as the type to be like that. I was surprised when you told me when I first told you. Then again, I suppose men like you had to learn to hide it well."
"Women too," Guitirre said with a shrug. "But, regardless, I can tell she wants to have a more thorough conversation about it. I might see if she wants to talk tonight. It'd be a good night for it, before we go forth and arrange for the officiating for Andres and his man."
"I can go get her if you'd like to talk about it," she offered, pushing herself from the rail.
"If you want to." Guitirre shrugged again. "I won't chase you out of here. Just remember, Mariela, I know it is still painful and I know there is still some distaste and vitriol, but try not to let it ruin you too much. I wish we were in a more perfect and safer world, but we are not. We're still far greater than we were, and we just need to keep trying to work at things. Alright?"
"I know, papa." Mariela's lips formed a line. Guitirre saw a wrinkle in her brow, but it smoothed out. "I'll go find mama."
"If you need anything, just let me know. I don't mind having a talk with Ileana or Pelayo," he told her.
"I will. Thank you." She gave her father a brief kiss on the cheek before she ducked back into the house. Guitirre watched her go, then turned his gaze back to the skies above. Ancient, forgotten tradition stated that each star was a soul of someone lost yet beloved. It was something from before the birth of the Church of Dusk proper. Celino didn't know how much he believed in it, but sometimes on quiet nights, he wondered if his parents were out there, shining a light on him and his own family.
How blessed was he to have it. A wonderful wife, beautiful children, healthy and hearty grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. He had suffered few losses within the family in comparison to many others, another small blessing. He looked back towards his house, tracing the iron holdings and ornamentation over the door that led back inside with his eyes. More little ones would be running around soon. Some of them might even have tusks. There was part of him that had been revolted at the revelation -- the part that had dedicated himself to running them out to the seas to begin with -- but he had carefully quashed those feelings. They were no different to the ones his wife probably felt when she learned one of her daughters had no interest in men.
He saw his wife approaching and gave her a smile. She opened the door and joined him, her white gown flowing as she moved. There was a certain grace to her every movement that Celino found captivating. Her hair was partially braided, though some had been let down for the evening. She was among family, so she didn't mind. Celino held out his arm and the two embraced before he kissed her.
"Good evening, my most beloved," he said with a smile.
"My still-bleeding heart," Casilda said, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. "Mariela said you wanted to talk about something."
"She and I just had a small conversation, and it reminded me that you and I might have some things we want to discuss," he said, leaning back against the rail. "Namely the revelation of my nature. I know it's been eating at you, so I'd like to be able to talk things over more fully."
Casilda tensed a little, but nodded. "I've been... doing a bit of thinking about that, Celino. Especially now with Ondina being traduco now, and getting he-- himself impregnated by an orc, preparing to marry him... it's been much."
"As I can imagine." Celino gently squeezed her hand. "I think I've found a priest for Andres, but I just have to work out actually getting him over to officiate things."
"Right," Casilda said slowly, stiltedly. There was a bit of a tense silence that followed. Celino rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Do you still love men?" she asked suddenly.
"Casilda, I already told you--"
"I know, but... but I..." she sighed. "I spoke with some of my own friends about it, because I didn't know what to do while you were being dragged back out to the killing fields. And one of them said something that's been... bothering me."
"What did they say?" Celino asked, one brow raised while the other was furrowed.
"Do you remember our little agreement? That, while both of us were out and separated for longer than a year, if we needed to... do something about it, we could as long as we told the other what we were doing?" Casilda asked.
"I remember," Celino said carefully. "If you're worried that I got with other men, Casilda, I never did. I stayed incredibly loyal to you."
"I know," Casilda said, one hand worrying with the side of her gown. "Well, she knew about this arrangement because she was the one who introduced me to -- do you remember that captain I wrote to you about with the scars over his shoulder from a bear hunt?"
"Vaguely. That was a while ago," Celino said, scratching his short beard.
"That was her cousin," Casilda went on. "And... she pointed out to me that while I definitely took advantage of that arrangement from time to time, you never really did. At least, not that you told me of."
"I didn't feel the need," Celino said with a shrug. "I was incredibly dedicated and focused on my work. Perhaps a little too much." His brow furrowed. He raised a brow at his wife. "Where are you going with this?"
"My girl friend told me that it felt a little unfair, and that you might want to... experiment," she said carefully. "That maybe you never took advantage of it because you still needed to be like the rest of us, or that you repressed yourself."
"Oh, my heart," Celino said, shaking his head. "Don't think that I only did what I did because I was trying to hide."
"I know you love me. And I love you too, my beloved soul," she said. "Which is why... I think I want you to..." Her lips formed a line. "I want you to be able to... do what I did. Experiment a little."
Celino's brows rose into his hairline. "Casilda, you don't have to. I would be perfectly content if I never tried to see if those feelings persist."
"I know. But she also made me realize that I've been wrong about a lot of things, and I want to try making them right before..." she trailed off. "Just in case anything happens."
Celino looked upon his wife with an expression of utter love and understanding. He came a bit closer and she leaned against him.
"I do not think I would be able to do it with any here in Torrezon," he said quietly. "I am too famous, and it'd bring too much rumoring. Even if we make this agreement, plenty would lambast us for infidelity."
"We can travel the planes," Casilda said. "There's other outposts that are going to be established and expeditions to be led. I know you'll be going out on them."
Celino tilted his head a little in thought. Arturo's nephew had found someone on Kamigawa. Perhaps he would find someone he fancied elsewhere.
"If we make this happen," he said with a slow sigh. "I will always tell you first before I do anything. And I am giving you every right to tell me that you are too uncomfortable and would rather I not continue at any time. Even if we are just about to get comfortable ourselves, if you decide to call things off there, I will listen. I swear this to you on the blood of our family, and on my own head."
Casilda nodded. "I still have that little... communique you gave to me when you brought Andres around."
"Good. I'll make sure to keep mine on me, and if I see anyone, I'll be sure to let you know." Celino pressed his lips to her forehead, then trailed a few kisses down her beautiful face before he gave her a soft kiss. "I love you."
"I love you too," his wife said softly. "You've been very good to me, Celino. I just... want to try and return the favor."
"You already have, my heart," he murmured. "A thousandfold. You owe me nothing."
"I do owe you this, I think," she said, squeezing his hand again. "You let me be with a handful of others for a number of nights, I think it is only fair if I do the same. And if it never happens, then it never happens, but I want to... at least give you the chance to see if you really still are homosexual or not."
"I appreciate that, Casilda," Celino said, kissing her again. "I love you very much. Don't ever forget that. You are wonderful to me."
"I know," she said, returning the kiss. "I am just trying to get through all of this. I'm trying to understand."
"I know. It is very much appreciated," he said softly, gently nuzzling her. "And remember, if you want to revoke this at any time --" he held up his hand. "Done. No questions asked, no bargains made, no is no. My heart is still yours."
"Alright," Casilda said, relaxing a little. "I hope, if you do find someone, they are at least attractive. You seem to have strange tastes in things."
"Listen, just because I am experimenting with the new plants and things we've gotten from Ixalan and beyond, it does not mean my taste in all things are strange," Celino said with a soft chuckle. "You have to admit, the dip was good."
"It had far too much pepper."
"I liked the heat," he said with a shrug. "Do you not trust me to know what an attractive individual looks like? I married you, after all."
Casilda let out a soft snort and shook her head. Celino snickered and kissed her cheek.
"Well, it's getting late enough for some of the young ones. They'll probably want to say goodnight to their ancient grandfather before they retire," he said. Casilda scoffed and gently pushed him.
"You make me feel old when you say such things," she said. Celino raised his brows at her, which got him a bit of a glowering look. "I can just tell you no now."
"And nothing would meaningfully change," Celino said. "You are the one who proposed this, not me."
Casilda rolled her eyes, twining an arm around her husband's and dragging him back inside. Celino happily followed with a laugh as they went to rejoin the rest of the family. Immediately he was inundated by them.
"Granpa! I want to go into the training yard! But Auntie Luzia told me I had to wait! Can I go?"
"Hey, Papa, when you have a moment, can you recall your mastiff? I think she's trying to chew boots again."
"I think Pelayo was looking for you before Mama went to talk with you, I'll go find him."
"Hey, we're almost out of that little fish dish thing, but we saved you a little bit in case you wanted any."
Ah, to be surrounded and needed by his loved ones. With his time to rejoin the front for a more proper strike starting in just a few days, this was most certainly a wonderful way to end his brief allowance home. Plenty of his fellows would be doing the same before the assault in the coming weeks. He quickly moved about in order to placate his large and loving family, sharing smiles and laughs and giving out a few life lessons as he went for the rest of the night. Casilda drifted nearby, and he noticed that she seemed to be far more at ease now. Mariela and her wife were idly speaking with the rest of the family, both holding hands a bit more proudly and ignoring some looks from the other bits of the family. Celino would speak with them before everything winded down proper.
Blessed Saint and all Venerables above, he was a deeply, dearly blessed man. He could think of no greater family to have.
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.
To the Ezandri Clan, the worst part of warfare was the part where the ground itself rose up against you.
They had not been taken by surprise by this attack. Centuries of this battle replaying over and over made this routine. Their weapons were all made solely of cold iron and strengthened by their own Halo, the purest form of starlight that they could wield. Of their population, small and scattered as it was, most of them could and did fight. The rest had taken their Clan’s belongings and taken wing before the attack.
But their enemies were not other angels nor demons, but the ground and sky itself. Stone formations crumbled to pieces. Trees older than the last demonic holdout fell and splintered. Water flooded hillsides and caused mudslides. Winds called up and weaponized by fae in the forms of tornadoes and hurricanes knocked angels out of the sky despite their strong wings.
Ezandri launched himself from the sky to swoop down upon a Court of Disaster fae that had taken a more elemental-esque form. Its stone body shattered into pieces from one strike of her cold iron sword. He then rapidly beat her wings to regain his lost height. Another angel swept by, striking a wind fae through the incorporeal body and buying Ezandri a moment to prepare for another attack.
Her people fought around him, buying time for the others to escape. She would stay here until the last managed to vanish.
Dive.
Strike.
Regain air.
Dive.
Strike.
Regain air.
They were still losing.
Ezandri winced as he felt another angel’s loss, a snap of wings and the dropping of a body. A scream of another angel echoed from somewhere behind her. None of this made sense. The Court of Disaster had attacked them regularly in the past, but this was a slaughter that Ezandri had never seen brought to them before.
He scowled and dove down once more as she saw another fae take on an elemental form. His blade struck true, sinking deep into its body. She beat his wings, trying to withdraw her sword. But this time, it remained stuck in the corpse, dragging him down with it as it collapsed to the ground.
The dead fae grinned at her.
He cursed and pressed her boot to the fae’s chest, trying to yank his sword free before-
A huge glob of mud struck her directly in the middle of his back. She cried out – more in surprise than pain – and spun around, beating his wings desperately to dislodge the muck and yanking sharply on her sword to finally free it.
Behind him stood a fae whose elemental guise she knew and despised on sight. The Left Hand of the Court of Disaster appeared as a tangled mess of mud, stone, and poison ivy that had taken on a human form to mock both the mortals that once sought out Ezandri’s Clan and Ezandri himself. Two spheres of a silvery grey metal made up the Left Hand’s “eyes”, which glowed a sickly, horrific-looking green when the Left Hand stepped into the sphere of Ezandri’s ambient Halo.
Ezandri scowled deeper and stepped back, bringing up her sword in both hands. “Left Hand of Decay,” he greeted, her voice tight. “What is the meaning of this?”
The Left Hand’s “mouth” stretched into something parodying a smile. Jagged stones stuck out of mud to mimic teeth. Angelic blood stained those stones. “Seeker of All,” it greeted in turn. “That is not for me to say. I’m here to keep you in place for my High Fae.”
Ezandri flapped his wings again. There was still mud in her feathers, and he realized just how patchy her flight feathers had become from the battering winds of the other Disaster fae. His armor was torn in a dozen or so places, the flattened plates and broken or warped links just barely protecting her and the patched cloth still trying its best to cling to his furred body. Most of her claws were broken, useless against beings made of the natural world.
His gaze flicked to the sky for a moment. Her remaining angels had escaped. But that was because the entire Court’s attacking force was now focused on him.
The entire mountain rumbled. More stones slid down the mountainside. More trees toppled. Waterways combined and collapsed. The earth surged up around Ezandri. Her grip on his sword tightened. Her heart sunk in his chest.
The Illustrious Earthshaker had arrived.
A body began to peel out of the upper half of the mountain. Trees – hemlocks, pines, aspens, firs, spruces – formed fingers, teeth, and bones. Water gathered in two deep pools to resemble eyes, pouring out of the basins for a moment before flash-freezing to look like trails of tears. Slate and mica formed “skin” unearthed from the mud below. The Illustrious Earthshaker’s chosen form was easily forty feet tall, if not taller, for He continued to grow by warping the mountain itself into His manifestation.
Splintered aspens made up His teeth. “Seeker of All.” His voice was like a dozen landslides layered over each other, only discernible due to its sheer volume.
She made sure that his grip on her sword was tight. He would not let Him see her shaking. Maybe, if he were lucky, she could get some answers. “Illustrious Earthshaker. What brings your Court here to slaughter my Clan?”
His gaze swept away past the rocks encircling her. The bodies of other angels from his Clan lay broken and shattered across the mountain, buried under rubble or slowly being pulled into the mud. Buried. Subsumed. Consumed.
The only thing worse than the Illustrious Earthshaker’s voice was His laugh. The sound of shattering glaciers echoed through the sky. “Out of respect, I will tell you, though it will not ultimately matter. Times change. The Honorable Judge has fallen and been replaced. Her hunting dogs lay slain or freed. The balance of power shifts. And now...there is no need to waste time on your Clan.” He raised His arms, peeling them away from the mountain to hold them up towards the sun-lit sky. “Now it is time to kill you and claim your power, Seeker of All. Then I will topple that foolish demon city and devour the archdemons’ pet dragon. But there is honor in our fight yet. I will let you die with your sword in your hand.”
Ezandri wondered how she was supposed to fight an entire mountain. He had taken wing against the Illustrious Earthshaker in the long past, but He had never joined His Court’s attacks on her Clan until now. How do you kill something that is made of the very world you stand upon? He would have to figure something out.
She gave his wings and experimental flap. Mud was still lodged among her tattered feathers. He couldn’t take to the sky for the mobile advantage that she was used to. Honor his ass, an honorable opponent did not ambush someone and prevent them from fighting fully if they wanted a proper duel.
She shook his head to dismiss that thought and slowed her breathing, focusing on each inhale and exhale as magical conduits themselves. His own power, the gathered starlight, usually flowed freely around her. Now he was withdrawing all of it back into her body.
The Illustrious Earthshaker sounded like the rumbling of stones. Ezandri realized that it was the sound of Him chuckling. He couldn’t tell that Ezandri was gathering power. “No quips, Seeker of All? No declarations that I will never succeed?”
As He spoke, Ezandri pressed the heels of his palms together and splayed out her fingers as though he were holding an orb. Her Halo silently pooled together in his palms. It was the essence of all that she was: his creativity, her hope, his desire to repair everything that had broken, her determination to not let everything fall to pieces despite the disasters brought about in the natural world.
And the resulting blast blew a hole right through one of the frozen basins making up the Illustrious Earthshaker’s “eye”.
Ezandri turned on his heel and ran away as the archfey behind her bellowed in pain. So that bastard does take damage, part of his mind noted while her body transitioned from fight to a less literal flight. His wings were still too mucked up with mud for her to fly away. The ground beneath his feet rumbled and shook as the other Court of Disaster fae began pursuing her.
There was a cliff coming up, a sheer drop. The ground beneath him shot up in precipices that she wove past. His instincts had not faded from the time she came into being, not after spending most of his life fighting these same fae.
She threw himself from the cliff’s edge.
Her wings snapped out.
The dried mud cracked and fell to pieces.
The wind carried him away.
Behind her, the enraged howls of Court of Disaster fae continued, but they were more concerned about their archfey than the escaping archangel.
He beat her wings and forced himself to get some lift so that she could just glide. He needed to get to the rest of her clan, to find out the damage done to his people.
Her wings finally gave out when he reunited with her clan. He hit the ground and grimaced slightly when her ankle rolled slightly on landing. Damn this body, damn its limitations, and damn Ziatora for binding his power in that ever-damned demon city.
“Head count and condition report!” she called, his voice carrying easily to her angels.
Tielurnio pushed forward. He was a younger angel warrior, with a flat bat-like nose and fur covering every inch of his body that wasn’t already covered in feathers. He was nursing a broken left arm that had already been tended to by one of the elders. “Four hundred of us are left in fighting condition,” he reported. His wings were pulled tight against his back. “About a thousand with varying injuries. The kids and the venerables are all safe, but the losses...”
Ezandri grimaced. The battle had begun with nearly two thousand angels in fighting condition, and now more than half were injured and less than a quarter were still able to fight. He knew that some of the angels had perished after the battle, as she had felt every single loss even on his way to rejoin them. She wished that he had been faster, but she also knew that everything that could be done for them had been done.
By the stars, look how far we have fallen.
Another voice rose. “Seeker Ezandri!” Ellal jogged over to join Ezandri and Tielurnio, shaking the shadows from her own wings. Her long fur was as dark as night, and her eyes were alarmingly white pinpricks that glowed despite all of her attempts to supress them. Not even her armor could provide definition to her form. “What’s the plan, my lady?”
Ezandri took a deep breath. What came next was something he had wondered during her flight to rejoin his clan. Her gaze wandered across his clanmembers, to the angels that she had sworn to defend and lead as each generation passed and he remained the only constant for them, to the angels that did not resemble the beloved artistic depictions popularized by the Church of Serra. She was their leader. He was the one they all trusted the most.
She needed to be the rock that they all depended on. He needed to see them through whatever had emboldened the Court of Disaster.
“...Times change,” she finally said. “Things have changed among the Courts, the Clans, and the Families, things that emboldened the Illustrious Earthshaker to finally try to destroy us once and for all. We have to find out what it is and adapt.” He paused for a moment as she realized something. “We need allies to make it through.”
“Allies?” Tielurnio repeated. “Like the other Clans? They’re friendly, but...”
“But not allies,” Ellal finished for him. She fluffed up her feathered wings. “You think they’ll help now? Will they take it seriously?”
Ezandri nodded, projecting a confidence that he did not feel. “We have lost over five hundred angels to a fae attack of unprecedented intensity. We have a thousand injured to the point where they cannot fight. We have lost our homeland to the very land itself, and we have nothing to rebuild from. The other archangels will recognize our plight. And if they do not...”
She hated the idea. He really hated the idea. But she knew that there was another option. “The demon city has paths leading to other places. Other planes. Ones where we can find allies who have never sullied our land or harmed our angels. If we cannot get the help of the other Clans, we can reach those and make our way through to find help on the other side.”
Leaving the plane felt like surrendering. Ezandri didn’t know how it would feel to be separated from the stars of Capenna. But it was better to retreat and recuperate than to lose even more of his clan. She had not experienced a loss like this in centuries, not since the invasion and the dragon tearing his essence apart to build that damned city.
Ezandri looked around at the clan that bore her name. Around a thousand injured angels who couldn’t defend themselves and their clan. Roughly four hundred in fighting condition. Five hundred-ish children, many of whom were now orphans or only had one parent left. Nearly three hundred venerable angels who could heal but not fight. The Ezandri Clan was always the smallest clan, but now, Ezandri felt as though they were an endangered subspecies.
“We will start by seeking out the Iustitia Clan,” he declared. “Whether they will aid and shelter us, I do not know. But it is our first step.”
All she could do now was hope that he was not leading her clan into the maw of another beast.
OOC Section:
Ezandri, Seeker of All and Release Potential were made by @masmackattack!
The Illustrious Earthshaker and Ezandri, Artifice's Light were made by @xenobladexfan!
Ezandri's model in the first card was made by myself in HeroForge.
And still he stood, atop the towering building that once dominated the area.
And still he stood, watching as the lights all went dark.
And still he stood, watching as wood and stone and bodies all reduced to ash.
And still he stood, feeling nothing.
Koda didn't jolt awake. He didn't do much of that anymore. Instead, he just opened his eyes and laid there.
He was still on the couch. He must have fallen asleep after he got done baking. It explained the dream.
He was still in the orphanage. He was still in Towashi's Undercity. He wasn't in Eigan Town. He wasn't watching it burn from the roof of Eiganjo itself.
He sighed softly. He pushed himself up off of the couch and stretched. His second mouth let out a huff that his main mouth didn't let escape.
He looked down at his clawed hands. They were stained with flour and dried batter that he had missed earlier. They weren't stained in blood and ash.
He turned and headed upstairs to go take a shower.
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.
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.”
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.
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