Catalyst Quest: Wild Growth
- Thread starter Alaric
- Start date
- Original Mature Fantasy Horror
Alaric
⠀
(What a bunch of phenomenal votes. @MoonSerpent knocked it out of the park, I'm stunned. Thank you guys so much for all that you do! We have a unanimous vote for A, and I'll be sure to get everything else, too. The vote is locked. Writing now!)
Chapter 71: Reverence
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 71: Reverence
You sweep up a piece of rubble from the floor, and pocket it lovingly. It should make a fine addition to your collection of demonic souvenirs.
"Demons are but shells of men left to their Catalysts. Their barbaric behavior apes who they once were— but no matter their lack of sanity—" You turn to Father Wilhelm with a smile. "—ultimately, they are still a part of mankind."
Father Pevrel bristles. "Of all the blasphemy—"
You talk over whatever complaint he's about to make. "There is nothing wrong with appreciating one's own martial skill." Your smile broadens, as you stride past Father Wilhelm (he looks equally parts relieved and amused), and ensnare Father Pevrel in another hug. "So long as one knows friend from foe—!"
"Get OFF of me, Anscham—!" He's only pretending to put up a fight. A weak shove at your arms and a little squirming is all he really attempts.
You laugh and keep the hug for just a few more seconds. The priest reluctantly stays put.
"There is also nothing wrong with it, so long as one— so long as one focuses on what truly matters." Having soundly won, you drop your hold, and look off to the horizon. To the suspiciously empty domain of a demon. "We should get moving."
The lord of wrath makes a show of shoving you away, once you've properly released him.
"If you're sure." The leader of the Church of Dream stretches, tries brushing some of the blood off from his robes, and gives up on the effort.
You can't help but linger just another moment. Ever a man of curiosity, you poke around Father Pevrel. "Your invocation was fascinating."
"It wasn't an invocation. Vengeance came to me."
"Why?"
The man's smirk is a lot more sentimental than usual. His reply is mumbled. "He loves me."
"What did Vengeance do to you so that your blood changed?"
"Stop poking me." You stop before he can bat you away. "He gave me more. Blood, that is."
"I see. How? What is different now?"
"There is nothing truly changed about me. Not in the way of my blood. I will have regained exactly as much as I had lost. Our God is just, Anscham."
You blink a few times in shock and awe. "He is just."
The three of you set off for the theater. The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and blood. You stick to the front, shield high, and a song in your heart.
You couldn't be happier to sing. The beat is as demonic and energetic as you feel, and every word drips with reverence.
"In Flesh, bone, and blood came a revelation
Through Mercy's fingers dripped crimson salvation
Intertwined - They're perfection unquestionable
Our motive and cure: death that's inevitable."
Both men by your side are terribly amused by your antics. Neither one gives you a hard time as you compose the rest. You have earned the right to express your devotion.
Breaking through such a crisis thanks to the workings of the Gods— seeing your enemies break before you— is something to be treasured. You are vindicated. You are more motivated to serve Flesh than you've ever been in all your life.
You literally integrate some exercise into the hike to the theater. The ache in your soul is significantly worse than it was when you came down to these ruins, but you don't let it stop you for an instant. The burn in every inch of your body is more fuel for your fire.
Father Pevrel is on high alert, but your surroundings during the march are suspiciously dark and quiet. It's as if the entire place is deserted. The ground steadily declines, dirt and stone littered only occasionally with rocks or a small rat. There's spiderwebs on plenty of the ruined buildings and on abandoned homes that look as if they were burnt to the ground. A few are smoldering perpetually, causing steady streams of smoke to rise in to the air. It does nothing to obscure the piercing red light up ahead.
Your singing would normally give your position away in an instant, but there are no monsters to be found. At the edge of a fallen civilization— the very instant that you're done with the song— you segue right into prayer to Flesh, Mercy, and Agriculture.
"Flesh, it has been so long..."
You thank Him for everything from saving the lives of your friends, to the very burn in your body now. The heat throughout your body feels localized in your face by the time that you're done. The fact that He permitted you to invoke Him is seriously sinking in, and you couldn't be more excited.
"Mercy, you have shown me how to properly heal..."
Thanks are given for Her compassion and everlasting love. Promises are made to see one another again soon. You won't let anything stop you from seeing it through.
"To gain is to serve..."
And thanks is given to Agriculture, for your excess. Though your size has been a deterrent, it's also been a blessing. Much of your muscle and energy is derived from the fat you carry. You're determined beyond measure to get into strapping shape, and to reform your diet accordingly.
"...I'm still going to make you proud."
Again, there's no interjections from your allies. Not until you get deeply into the city, and the hole in the wall that you entered from has vanished completely from sight.
All that lies ahead is ruin, a theater, and a demon in the street.
It appears that the demon has yet to notice you. The monstrosity is at least nine feet tall, and has no humanoid shape to it. It's more like a mound of matte white liquid, which perpetually oozes onto the area around it. It has no facial features. No discernible way to perceive its environment. No way to speak. The way it moves is unsettling to an extreme degree. There's no indication of its locomotion. It's almost as if whatever is inside of the mass of liquid— if there is anything inside— is floating. It glides in an erratic way along the street, obviously attempting to protect the front of the theater.
The slightly transparent substance it's oozing all over the floor looks like fine porcelain. Your study in the Church of Agriculture taught you that the substance it's made of isn't native to Corcaea, and that even if the rare rock was, there's only one or two men in the nation who possess the tools to melt it. Softer versions of porcelain are an incredible luxury. You've seen a few dolls with faces made of it in the capital— and upon the dolls that comprised a demon of thread— but never in quantities like this.
You and your company sneak behind a ruined building for cover. The surface of the stone is scalding. You take care not to lean against it, tightening your grip on your mace and shield.
Waves of heat bake off of the area surrounding the demon. The porcelain that it's exuding covers the length of the entire street. It would be incredibly treacherous to walk around. Walking on it is simply not an option, unless you were to invoke Mercy.
Gritting your teeth, you can't imagine your mace doing a damn thing to this creature— or any of your other mundane weapons, for that matter. Whether or not your shield would hold isn't a question, at least. The enchanted defense has taken on blasts of magma before without being compromised.
Father Pevrel grimaces, sheathes his sword, and joins Father Wilhelm in hiding completely behind the building. The brooding man just had a near-death experience, and really can't do shit against such an odd demon without invoking. Given that fighting here isn't an option for him, it would seem that he's content to sit back and watch. Or at the very least, he has enough honor and pride to not whine when he's not of much use.
Father Wilhelm has seen what you're capable of, against demons made of magma and heat. Nevertheless, he whispers to you and Father Pevrel with a manic grin, "you both have done plenty for me as of late. Would you like to sit back and watch?"
You catch one more glimpse of the demon. You can't pin it in the hierarchy, which is never a good sign. The raw amount of power it's exuding is even further cause for concern.
Both priests look to you expectantly.
>All of the following are mutually exclusive.
>Majority vote will decide.
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death.
>B] Absolutely not. You won't risk Father Wilhelm coming to harm, and you need to take care of this demon swiftly. There's no point in saving your strength if he gets hurt and you have to invoke later, anyways.
>1] Invoke Mercy to grant Father Wilhelm your protection. Trust him to take the enemy down.
>2] Invoke Agriculture, and manipulate this demon's porcelain against it. It shouldn't be able to touch you.
>3] Write-in.
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death
Dream Bros got this
Dream Bros got this
Mar
Web Novel Addict
- Location
- USA
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death.
Florin
Priest of Yech
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death.
Let us not forget he is the most veteran out of all of us. If he says he got it I am pretty sure he means it.
Let us not forget he is the most veteran out of all of us. If he says he got it I am pretty sure he means it.
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death.
To watch and learn from the master painter? Of course!
To watch and learn from the master painter? Of course!
>A] Absolutely. You trust that the leader of the Church of Dream can hold his own, and he did take the least of the brunt of your last fight. Save your strength. You'll be an active watcher, and will try to learn a thing or two in the process. Swear to not intervene unless it's a matter of life or death.
Chapter 72: Living Nightmare
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 72: Living Nightmare
Father Atticus Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream, has weathered well over sixty Harvests. He has borne five sons— all of which are priests of his order— and all who outclass you both with experience and knowledge of their God.
With blood coating every inch of him and a cigar still firmly kept between his teeth, it doesn't escape your notice that there has yet to be a single scratch on the wizened priest.
You whisper, "an opportunity to defer to and learn from a master?"
"Richard." His grin broadens with affection.
You bow your head slightly, smiling as well. "Do not think that I've forgotten how much greater your knowledge is than mine." He's getting embarrassed. You tone it down. "Of course, I— I know you have this handled."
The demon beyond may be deaf and blind to have not noticed your company by now. You can't help but wonder how it's keeping such a methodical patrol in front of the theater, but there's no time left for questions.
You get completely behind the wall for cover. Father Wilhelm pats you on the shoulder, before shrugging off his sleeping jacket for the first time since you've met him.
He's wearing a simple blue nightshirt beneath, with a motif of moons and stars all along his back. The untouched fabric sticks to his skin from sweat. He's incredibly thin, has a small build, and looks as if he hasn't worked out a day in his life.
The priest stamps out his cigar on the rubble-coated street. You try not to gasp.
From his pajama pocket, a single slip of blue fabric is withdrawn. He ties it around his eyes. The cloth should effectively blind him— but you know better.
You're sweating from the heat radiating off the stone at your back, and watch as the lord of creativity slinks off in the opposite direction of the demon. Your instinct is to call out to the man, but he moves so silently and smoothly through the winding and narrow streets that you know better than to give chase.
Father Pevrel starts, wanting to move after the man as well— but you grab him as hard as you can by his shoulders, and keep your friend in place.
"We are not moving from this spot unless it is a matter of life or death."
The two of you share a worried look towards Father Wilhelm, before turning back to face each other.
You whisper, "agreed?"
Father Pevrel nods once, lips thin. "...agreed."
You are at least a mile underground, and look on as the invisible ceiling of this demon's domain impossibly washes over with clouds of ink and midnight. From this new sky comes an assortment of animals and monsters made of paint. The cobalt menagerie silently falls, splashes to the ground in puddles of darkness, then reforms into larger terrors than the demon you have yet to face.
There's no sight of Father Wilhelm, through every single street quickly floods with his creations. They speed up their procession as they approach the demon of porcelain. Some barrel forward on all four limbs. Others swim through the air, devoid of the liquid they should need to survive. Many more still flap with silent wings, or skitter about the ground in every which way.
The first to make contact is a sapphire ape that stands at only half the behemoth's height. Its likeness to gemstones sparkles, as the beast opens its massive jaws, and lets loose a facsimile of the real animal's roar.
The heat rising from the demon's body is so intense, the ground-born creature evaporates before ever reaching it.
Every land-based animal in the area promptly melts to the ground. The streets run with a swiftly forgotten Dream.
He can manifest any vision he pleases— but they are still susceptible to the rules of reality.
He's using his creations to test the demon.
Plumes of blue smoke obscure a battery of painted hawks that dive in from the sky.
Dozens of them streak down from directly above the demon.
The flurry of their collision is so intense, you can't make out anything in the streets beyond the monstrous clouds of toxic paint that build on their target's location.
The demon of porcelain lets out an unearthly sound— it's as if someone were screaming while choking on rocks and broken glass.
You grab at your throat for a moment, and swallow. Hard. You know the feeling.
There's no time or need to dwell on old memories. You glance away from Father Pevrel clutching at his ears, and see enormous blobs of white-hot liquid flinging skyward. The demon is heaving parts of its own body at the painted flock, trying to drive away their continuous assault.
Rather than make contact, the birds change shape mid-air: from hawks, to butterflies, to hundreds of hornets.
He knows how to distract his enemy. Now he's going to try and weaken it.
The impression of buzzing fills your mind. It's like having something fuzzy stuck behind your eye.
Father Pevrel almost makes a sound of discomfort. You wince— catching your ally grasping harder at the hilt of his sword— and force yourself to look on.
The swarm continues to expand. It seems that their imaginary sound can be perceived by the demon, too. The monstrosity is thrashing hard enough to hit itself— seemingly unaware that all the remaining animals and beasts around the city have melted onto the stone.
Paint runs through the streets.
The hive of wasps builds into a demented cloud. Hundreds of pests swarm the demon's location, never touching it.
He won't waste his energy.
From far down the street— at least four buildings away from the demon— you spot Father Wilhelm. He has his back to the stone wall, and looks as relaxed as you've ever seen him. His hands are locked in prayer, and he's muttering feverishly to himself— but there's no strain on his features. Only the cracks of blue in his skin have worsened.
Within lies an expanse of the night's sky. Thousands of stars, and the light of a full moon.
The demon starts to move away from the front of the theater, slowly dragging itself along the ground. The horrific sound it's making simply won't stop. It's clearly in agony, and is trying its best to not aggravate the wasps on it any further (to no avail).
Father Wilhelm disappears from sight once more.
What is he doing—?
Father Pevrel suddenly grabs you by the back of your robes and tackles you to the floor. He's shielding you with his body before you can register what's happening.
On reflex, you swing your shield over both of your heads, and pray.
A sudden blast of heat bursts from around either side of the stone building you're taking cover behind. It's like being in an oven.
You look on in horror as the liquid porcelain that flowed through the street is now headed in your direction— smoldering, smoking, and dividing into its baser components. A current of lesser metals parts from white stone, in a miasma that might as well be aflame.
Both of you back up— closer to the red-hot wall— and hazard a look around the side of the building the second that the heat starts dying down.
The wasps have all evaporated into blue smoke. The clouds of their former composition spins rapidly into a cone towards the sky, then swirls into itself.
A singular point of blue begins to condense— and starts dripping. Gallons of paint pour down in every shade of blue. The downpour divides into several streams, drizzling along every branch of the street. Flecks of ice can be seen in the mix. The liquid must be freezing. The rock and stone that it hits by cools by the second.
He must have realized what danger we were in.
There are ways to protect us without brute strength, or even without Mercy's gifts.
Steam rises hot and fast in all directions. There's almost no way to make out anything in the road, aside from the white-hot glow of the demon at its center.
Moreover, he's tested this demon thoroughly. What now...?
A cry rips across the ruins. It's like a knife in your ears. Eyes in your hands. Hair on your tongue. It's like every nightmare you've made manifest. You've never heard anything so disgusting or disturbing in your life.
Half-expecting to feel teeth sprouting from your palms— or to suddenly find yourself reliving your worst fears— you look desperately around. At the opposite end of the road is your mentor, standing legs apart, clasping one hand to his opposite wrist. He's still praying, but the noise is not coming from him.
It takes every ounce of effort that you have to keep a hand to your lips, to fight back a scream, and to force yourself to look to the sky.
The lips of a God spread apart the heavens as far as the eye can see. Blackened teeth and a tongue made of stars. Paint drips steadily down from between gums made of the darkest corners of your imagination.
You fall to your knees, and can't wrench yourself away from the sight. It's incomprehensible.
Silently, you mouth, 'blessed be the Dream. Blessed be the night.'
The cracks in Father Wilhelm's skin blisters the surrounding tissue with starlight. For a moment, there is no difference between the priest's body and that of the God above him.
Dream can't influence this demon directly— so He is working through Father Wilhelm to make that possible. Father Wilhelm has made a night in which Dream can manifest...
The priest of the night is still smiling.
...and Dream is keeping him together.
This should have killed Father Wilhelm ten times over.
The starlight begins to fade. Every side of the road has cooled down dramatically, granting you a clear view of the action.
It looks like he's just getting started.
Porcelain sparks and snaps into the air in liquid chunks. There's so much heat coming off from the demon, it instantly evaporates every ounce of paint that's dripped onto the road around it.
This must be a defensive mechanism. Father Wilhelm was testing what would happen if he cut loose on this monster...?
The same, horrific sound it was making before becomes a whimper. The white-hot creature draws in on itself— then its attention suddenly snaps to your mentor.
From the palm of Father Wilhelm's hand, a blast of ice shoots across the length of the street.
The attack is no less than a foot in diameter.
A current of frigid air whips at your hair and robes as the attack flies by.
It travels so quickly that the endpoint of the attack collides with the demon before you can even blink.
It hits the demon square in the chest, sending it flying back fifteen feet, onto the steps of the theater, and all the way up to the closest wall.
The building oddly shows no response to the catastrophe that's taking place outside its doors.
He's testing our next destination even during the fight...?! What if that destroyed the front of the theater?!
The point of impact is like diamond incarnate. The frigid substance instantly cools the porcelain that it connects with. Gigantic, solid chunks of the earthenware rocket off from the demon's body in every direction.
You duck behind the building just as a piece the size of your head streaks by. The force it streaks past you with makes the object sing before crashing into one of the nearby buildings. It hits hard enough to burst into chips of ceramic and stone in every direction.
You almost drop to the ground, keep your shield high before you and Father Pevrel, and fight to not put both hands to your ears as multiple earth-shattering explosions shake the very ground beneath you.
Steeling yourself— making sure that Father Pevrel is alright (he is)— you just barely lower your shield so that both of you can see is happening around the corner.
Father Wilhelm's attack is unrelenting. He has yet to move from his position at the end of the street. It's clear that the shot of ice is actually a continuous drill of ice. Massive explosions of steam constantly drive the demon of porcelain in every direction, while its body is shattered away, piece by piece.
The monster is glowing from the sheer amount of heat it's trying to put off, but it's not doing any good. Even as it slowly tries to inch its way down the road, the maw that's been created from the roof of the world slowly descends upon the creature, threatening to engulf it whole.
It's terrified.
Dream's lips sudden open wide, revealing a gigantic, blue eye. Even the whites are tinted with cerulean.
"Mercy."
The orb snaps towards Father Wilhelm, who stops his prayer for an instant to scream.
The force of the blast suddenly and violently intensifies.
It destroys every step of progress that the demon has made down the street, blasting it backwards so violently that it stumbles, rolls back several feet, and slams to the ground.
The lord of interpretation takes several heavy steps forward, still keeping up the assault. He's breathing hard, and you have yet to make out the prayer that he's constantly whispering.
He's intimidating it into complete submission, but it's wearing on him. There's a limit to how long and how hard he can invoke, and he's well past it.
Through the blasts of steam and colossal wedges of porcelain flying through the air, you catch a glimpse at the demon's body beneath. A small crack is at the peak of the monster's colossal body, where a face should be. It looks as if its flesh is red-hot beneath. There are no eyes or features that you can make out. The creature is writhing hideously, and starts screaming again— despite its fear of what lurks above.
The eyeball at the height of the world is enclosed by blackened lips. Dream's mouth curls up in a cheshire grin, and continues curling, all the way until it wraps back in on itself. The entire expression disappears— along with all traces of the God's likeness.
Father Wilhelm's steps rapidly increase. Blackened paint streaks out from his feet, hands, and eyes. The substance crystallizes with each step, leaving trails of frost down the road— and providing him with safe passage towards the rapidly cooling monster.
He has to finish this.
Steam rises in all directions, as the liquid ceramic continues to cool. The demon's movements become erratic, as its form is rapidly stiffening, threatening to become completely immobile.
The screams rising from its body are intensifying. Demon's blood starts to blend with the mixture of cooling porcelain and ice. The blackened, foul-smelling, sinful substance runs in rivulets down its previously flawless exterior. Combined with the ice caking its form, the monstrosity is almost unrecognizable from the mass that it was mere minutes ago.
Mere yards away from the demon— having yet to stop the blast of ice and force— Father Wilhelm opens his lips.
A swarm of gigantic, imaginary wasps flies out, descending on the demon in an ear-splitting hum. Paint flecks and drops all over the creature, coating it in temperas and oils. It keeps screaming, barely able to writhe. Its body is a prison. There is no conceivable way for it to see Father Wilhelm's approach.
This still isn't overkill. He can't risk the demon retaliating.
Still frantically whispering, Father Wilhelm stops the drill's attack. A chunk of ice is left suspended in the air between him and his victim's body for a split second, before it's shattered by the painted wasp's spinning. It leaves a glimpse of a clear weakness on the demon's frame: a large crack running down from the peak of its body.
The hole that he drilled is just large enough for a sword to pierce.
Parting his hands shakily, the priest swiftly gestures for every wasp to come back to his hands.
As they move through the air, they solidify into a singular lance made of ice and oils.
He grasps the weapon in both hands, strides up to the cooled demon, and steps on its chest.
The monster is frozen solid, and can't make a sound.
Father Wilhelm drives his weapon straight through the demon's skull, and drives his weapon down.
It howls.
The weapon sinks completely up to the hilt, seemingly vanishing.
You realize that the weapon has filled the demon's body.
The priest turns, throws himself to the side with a shout, and rolls as the monster's porcelain frame shatters into thousands of microscopic pieces.
Each piece is made of ice. A flurry of heretical snow falls from the sky. There's no other trace left of demon of porcelain.
Sprawled out on the ground, the leader of the Church of Dream instantly ends his invocation, and passes out on the spot.
"Holy shit." Father Pevrel is too stunned for a moment to even move from behind your shield.
The two of you look to one another, then rush out of hiding and sprint to his body. Your ally keeps his sword out, looking frantically about for any sign of other attackers.
You kneel beside your mentor, and check to make sure he's still alive. Though he's clearly exhausted, has some burns on his lower body, and seems as if a few of his scars are deeper than before, the cheeky bastard is smiling even in his sleep.
Sighing hard, you glance up to Father Pevrel. "He's alive."
The killer is incredibly pale. "Thank all the Gods. We're going to want him up. There are more demons sitting inside of that theater than I've seen in one place in all my life."
You go pale. "Those are— that is— please be more specific."
"They're all stationary. Sitting. By my best estimates..." He mouths something to himself. It looks like he's counting. The way he growls does nothing to ease your mind. "...there's likely over two hundred of them."
Memories of your last battle alongside Father Edmund hits you like a slap across the face.
You're still reeling from watching what Father Wilhelm did. It's hard to think about every other encounter you've had with as many demons, but you look to the unconscious man on the ground— caked in flecks of porcelain, chunks of paint, and a lot of demon's blood— and just barely resist the urge to swear.
You breathe, "what—?"
"I've fought battles against more— and I know you have too— but that was with an army by my side. Never like this." He frowns at you. "Not that you aren't a one-man-army, Anscham." The sudden respect puts a cold sweat on you. "I think we could take them. But I do not like the idea of having to guard Atticus against whatever it is that they're sitting for."
You take a deep breath and collect yourself. It's been awhile since you were last in the ruins— but the sight of smoldering buildings, endless night, and the promise of a madhouse dead-ahead puts a spark in your eyes.
This is your element.
"We stand a far greater chance of them not attacking if we can locate their superior." You shrug off your satchel and start rummaging for everything you need to dress Father Wilhelm's burns, simultaneously glancing over to Father Pevrel while you talk.
Gash above his right eye, no need for immediate treatment.
Tenderness around his ankles and wrists from the demons of conduction. He's a fighter— it won't compromise the use of his sword.
Abrasions from diving to the floor.
Mild burns around the sides of his neck and face—
"Turn around for a second."
"Fine." He does.
—mild burns on the back of his neck, scalp, and on the backs of his hands. The blood on his clothes and shoes kept some of the heat at bay. Good.
"Once we know where they are? Regardless of whether they are receptive to talking— if they can talk, for that matter— we will be able to garner their leader's protection or influence over the rest of their domain. Killing whoever is in charge outright is likely the worst thing we could do, but it— it is a better alternative than letting a theater of demons overwhelm us." You bite your lip, reminiscing about being stabbed in the back after becoming overwhelmed by a few dozen imps.
Father Pevrel clears his throat.
You finally find everything you need from your endless carrying space (it's a lot harder to locate what you need with three weeks of supplies still inside), and ask, "is there anyone else that you can see inside? Any demons that may be alone and away from the mob, or with a— or with a small retinue?"
The priest goes silent for a long minute, while you start grinding down paperwhite and aloe into a burn remedy as quickly as you can. You're soon armed with a paste, and are rapidly incorporating the mixture onto bandages— along with a salve of honey— by the time that Father Pevrel speaks again.
"It looks like there is one demon that's alone. It's in the back, deep inside the building— behind where the stage should be. It might be faster to actually go in through the front..."
You're making the fastest work of dressing Father Wilhelm's burns that you possibly can. His feet got the worst of it. It's going to be a nightmare for him to hike for the next couple of weeks, even with measures taken for pain relief.
You could lend the man your Relic. His recovery will be slow, but even hiking won't lead to any complications if he's under your care.
You could also simply invoke Mercy to heal him instantaneously. It would be sacrilege, and you're trying with all your might not to invoke, but your need is dire.
To interfere with the rest of the very leader of the Church of Dream would be a terrible offense, both towards Father Wilhelm and towards our patron.
If it comes down to it, it would be effortless to carry Father Wilhelm. I could even keep him held with my shield arm, and protect him while we move— but it would compromise some speed and dexterity...
"Anscham." Father Pevrel whispers, "if we're going to wait for Atticus to wake up, we still need to move away from the doors." He tenses, moving between you, Father Wilhelm, and the theater. "Two of them are coming."
>The following are mutually exclusive.
>Majority vote will decide.
>A] Wake up Father Wilhelm. Give him your Relic for pain relief, then get the man on his feet. You're going to storm the front of this theater, and need the leader of the Church of Dream in fighting shape.
>B] Wake up Father Wilhelm, but carry him so that that he doesn't aggravate his burns. You'll enter the theater cautiously. Defend yourself only if necessary, and see if you can appeal to get an audience with whoever is in charge of this domain.
>C] Wake up Father Wilhelm. Give him your Relic for pain relief, then get the man on his feet. There's no way that you're taking unnecessary risks in this situation. You'll sneak around the back of the theater, and will try to get the jump on the demon that's apart from the others.
>D] Let Father Wilhelm rest, and carry him so he doesn't aggravate his burns. You'll seek shelter somewhere among the wreckage until he wakes up. Do everything you can to treat everyone's injuries in the meantime.
>E] Write-in.
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Florin
Priest of Yech
>A] Wake up Father Wilhelm. Give him your Relic for pain relief, then get the man on his feet. You're going to storm the front of this theater, and need the leader of the Church of Dream in fighting shape.
This is giving me MAJOR fuckzone vibes. And if we know anything from that experience is that these bastards LOVE a good show, let everyone know to pull out the best theatrics they have, perhaps it could garner us a bit of respect from these demons that no doubt have catalysts that somehow relate to this location. Willhelm has the most experience with this sort of building so getting his input will be valuable, there is no rest for the wicked a mile beneath the earth. Wake him the fuck up, we have a 3 v 200 to win.
Mentally get ready to invoke the best crowd control we have at our disposal, Storm.
Slap Willhelm awake and ask for an encore for the approaching audience.
This is giving me MAJOR fuckzone vibes. And if we know anything from that experience is that these bastards LOVE a good show, let everyone know to pull out the best theatrics they have, perhaps it could garner us a bit of respect from these demons that no doubt have catalysts that somehow relate to this location. Willhelm has the most experience with this sort of building so getting his input will be valuable, there is no rest for the wicked a mile beneath the earth. Wake him the fuck up, we have a 3 v 200 to win.
Mentally get ready to invoke the best crowd control we have at our disposal, Storm.
Slap Willhelm awake and ask for an encore for the approaching audience.
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>E] Write-in.
Allow yourselves in and meet the demons. No need to wake Father Wilhem at this time. But prepare for combat nontheless. You want the demon in charge to come to you now that you've caught his attention with the Father of Dream.
This seems to be a delegation party rather than a full host to eliminate us. The demon in charge seems to respond to theatrical displays given the choice of building to inhabit. Rather than fighting our way in, why not make it a show? Entice the welcome delegation escorting you to get their boss out of hiding with a promise to make a grand spectacle on the stage.
Allow yourselves in and meet the demons. No need to wake Father Wilhem at this time. But prepare for combat nontheless. You want the demon in charge to come to you now that you've caught his attention with the Father of Dream.
This seems to be a delegation party rather than a full host to eliminate us. The demon in charge seems to respond to theatrical displays given the choice of building to inhabit. Rather than fighting our way in, why not make it a show? Entice the welcome delegation escorting you to get their boss out of hiding with a promise to make a grand spectacle on the stage.
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Chapter 73: Drazhan's Decree
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 73: Drazhan's Decree
There is no rest for the wicked.
"Dream, forgive me."
You SLAP Father Wilhelm clean across the face. He's not only startled awake, but jerks upright, and swings a fist towards your skull on reflex.
One of your massive hands effortlessly catches the punch, and holds it in place. The other hand rips your Relic off from your neck, and thrusts the golden locket into the priest's soft palm.
"I demand an encore."
Your broad hand left an angry red streak on his cheek from eyes to beard. He looks at you like you're crazy. "Is that any way to wake up an old man—"
You are (pretty much unarguably) crazy, and nod towards the demons that are exiting from the theater's hand-carved, colossal, wooden double-doors. "Ask the newest members of your audience."
A tired laugh escapes from the brunette. You know he has complete relief from his physical pain. He's rapidly tying your Relic's chain around his hand to keep the item held in place, and has his twinkling eyes fixed firmly on the demons ahead. "I'd thank you for dealing with my wounds, but now isn't the best time for it, is it?"
Father Pevrel bristles like a wild cat at the approaching figures. Both demons are enshrouded in burning robes. Though they stand at the height of a grown man, their resemblance to a human ends there. They're walking on three legs, are six feet from end-to-end, sport long horns rising from the tops of their heads, and have bare, blistering arms. Every inch of their blackened skin— and the bulky cloth adorning them— is smoldering with a pale blue flame.
Judging by the heat radiating off of their bodies in waves, you safely assume that it would burn you to get any closer.
Giving Father Wilhelm a pat on the back, you hoist the man to his feet, sweep up your things, and move towards both demons shield-first. "You're a bit early! We're still rehearsing."
As you pass by Father Pevrel, the man takes a deep breath and comes up right behind your defense. A small conga line forms as Father Wilhelm follows suit. The heat is already unbearable.
You whisper to your allies, "I have a feeling that these demons want to see some theatrics. I'd like to see the best that you both have."
Father Pevrel hisses, "you seriously want me to ham it up?"
Another, lighter laugh leaves the leader of the Church of Dream. He's already invoked his God, and speaks with the promise of artistry.
"Let's give them a good show."
The pair of charred demons comes to a stop. The one to the right— with horns twisted into vertical spirals— puts up a single, blackened hand. Palm out. It's a universal gesture: a request for Mercy.
All you can think about is the glory of fighting with three men versus two hundred demons. The potential of invoking Storm. An opportunity to out-do a master.
You let loose a scream, and charge towards the inferno.
Every step is better and worse than the last.
The unbearable heat lasts only for a second.
At your back, a slurry of paint and ice sweeps from Father Wilhelm's hands, pouring over the other side of your shield, and extinguishing the flame on both demons in a perpetual cascade of diamonds.
Father Pevrel dips from around the side of your shield as you keep up the charge. Faster than even you're running, he sprints ahead. There's the sound of a scuffle. A basinglass sword scraping across coal. One demon falls.
You brace against the back of your defense, and SLAM into the other monstrosity with three hundred pounds of devotion. The demon goes flying, and crashes into the front doors of the theater. There's not so much as the sound of the demon hitting the wood. The uncanny experience passes as quickly as it came, as your victim is unconscious on impact.
By your side, Father Pevrel has grabbed the other demon by its throat. There's zero hesitation. Keeping his captive in a choke-hold, the lord of wrath sticks his sword straight into the demon's chest— and carves down the center of its body, splitting the demon in twain.
It must be mute. There's no scream. It doesn't let out single a sound.
You lower your shield as Father Pevrel drops the corpse to the floor, and looks straight to the building's front entrance. "I'm guessing you want to barrel in."
You're practically shaking with excitement. Your response comes a little too quickly. "Yes."
He sighs, rolls back his sleeves, and grabs both demons by the cloth at the back of their necks. They have no facial features. It's incredibly disturbing.
Quickly, you turn to Father Wilhelm, and nod towards the theater. "You have the most experience with this sort of building...?"
He seems to have been so tired, he spaced out the moment he was offered the chance at some respite. The man blinks, taking a second to reply. "For recreation? Certainly!"
He spends the next five minutes giving you an incredibly brief lesson on theater terminology, and the general layout of what the building should be like.
"Hope that's of some help, Richard."
"It is. Thank you."
"But... for something like this?" He gestures vaguely to the demons in Father Pevrel's hold, the ruins you're in, and the blood covering all three of you.
You're both thinking it. You might as well say it.
"This is— this is so similar to Remigius' lair." You're really trying not to sound too excited. "The last place I—" You're blushing. "—fought her in, it— it housed just as many demons as this, if not more."
Father Pevrel has heard your full confession. "The Fuck Zone? You lived." He grunts. The demons in his arms must be incredibly heavy for him to show any signs of complaint. "Get the door."
You stride up to the front of the theater, take a quick breath, shift your weight, and kick open the rightmost door with so much force that it flies off the hinges.
The sound of the door blowing off its hinges echoes through the otherwise silent space with such intensity that many of the figures seated in the audience move to cover their ears.
Two hundred heads turn towards you and your company in every shape and size.
Legs stinging in the best of ways— splinters still in the air— you stride straight into the darkened theater.
The landing that you're standing on is at the top of a massive, wooden stair. Each step is a couple feet tall, simultaneously providing seating and a way for the audience to get closer to the stage. Demons are hanging underneath and between the hollowed-out steps, flying in mid-air in the colossal gap between the high ceiling and the bottom-most landing, and are clinging to the walls in many places. There are decrepit paintings on many surfaces, masks hung about in the fashion of every human emotion, and at the center of it all is a stage.
It's a darkened void at the lowest point of the theater. If there are any props or decorations, you can't make them out from your high vantage point. Judging by the lack of motion— and by Father Pevrel's earlier direction— you can safely assume that it is vacant.
You lower your shield. With a burning city at your back, caked in blood, and towering over every demon in the theater, you call out with the voice of a killer. The voice of a masochist, a glutton, and a preacher.
"Demons and disbelievers! Sinners and slanderers! Apostates of ALL AGES! May I have your attention, PLEASE!"
Every head is already turned towards you. Countless demons rise from their seats, sharpening weapons, gnashing teeth, and ripping off parts of their own bodies in a frenzy.
"Is that any way to greet the leader of the Church of Mercy?! WHAT A PISS-POOR WELCOME!" Father Pevrel decides that this is an opportune moment to throw the unconscious demon down the entire flight of steps. Its neck breaks halfway down, at which point he hurls the split demon's carcass after it. Blood flecks and spills over every demon and step that the bodies hit. "Perhaps a red carpet would suit us better!"
You gladly step onto the morbid train, paying no heed to the demons climbing directly towards you. Your shoe squishes and slides slightly, while you (broadly) gesture towards yourself and your allies.
"I would like to present you all with tonight's ENTERTAINMENT!"
Every demon at the topmost level of the theater is up and growling. Hissing. Shrieking. They're rapidly running towards you.
Your voice carries over all of them. "An act comprised of three parts!"
You brace against your shield, and hold your ground. The priests at your back are both in the throes of their Gods. Father Pevrel is a void of shadow, and Father Wilhelm is embraced by the God of the Night.
This is literally no deterrent for any demon in the arena. Most of them probably don't understand what you're saying— or just don't care.
Moments before you're sandwiched between a wave of demons on every side, the priest of Dream beside you drags his hand across the closest wall.
"Please remain seated."
Every painting in the theater hops off from the wooden paneling, and comes alive. Parchment bursts out from frames, wielding the broken wood to bother and distract the horde of imps that's pressing towards your location. Paper planes soar through the air, and explode into paint on impact, blinding many more foes.
The little constructs fearlessly focus on the monsters closest to you and your friends. The fight rages on for a matter of moments. Those that are wielding weapons have them chewed into sawdust. Many more are squashed underfoot or crumpled into nothingness. It's barely enough time for you to bellow.
"Before our GRAND spectacle can begin—"
The entire theater is in an uproar. At the topmost level, a streak of thorns shoots by your head. It looks like an imp snapped off one of the spiked spines on its face for the sole purpose of trying to maim you. It laughs hideously, while your fellow priests move to cover you from the incoming onslaught.
"—the greatest show this underworld has ever seen—"
On your other side, the leader of the Church of Vengeance has created a line of absolute shadow on the floor. It's all that stands between your company and no fewer than thirty demons. Most are so broad and hulking that only one at a time fits in the narrow hallway at the top of the steps.
"—we're missing our STAR!"
The monsters closest to the line are now slowly being pushed towards it by the demons at their back, and seem instinctively terrified of what might happen if it's crossed. As much as you'd like to find out, you do strongly suspect that you're going to die if you don't do something, fast.
Squished up against Father Pevrel and Father Wilhelm— looking on as a flying demon is dive-bombing towards your location, not giving a shit about whatever defense Father Pevrel just put down— you cry out, "PERHAPS THE STAR OF OUR SHOW IS AFRAID OF THE SPOTLIGHT?!"
Every lamp in the theater suddenly goes out.
Every single demon promptly seats itself once again. The commotion is intense. The darkness is absolute.
Fifty candles spring to life in a circle around the stage. There are no props. No decor. No distractions. Shadow reigns for only a moment.
There are more seats on the opposite side of the stage. Every demon is transfixed by a single figure in the theater's very center.
Light flares at the figure's back with so much intensity, you cry out, and swing your shield high to cover your eyes.
There's no disturbance from any of the demons, or from either of your divinely gifted allies. They all are staring at the center of the stage, unblinking.
It's only for fear of your life that you lower your arm, and squint to see just what it is that's suddenly brought the entire theater to a stand-still.
Heat and smoke bakes off the sand. Standing atop the flat floor of the stage is a figure crowned with quills. Its face is a broken mirror, marred by shadow, and disfigured by a pair of sharpened teeth. Each one of its many arms extends from the torso of a human man. Within each of its many hands is a porcelain mask. Some are aged beyond compare, smeared with filth, and are cradled against its torso lovingly. Others are pristine— made of the very same substance that comprised the demon of ceramic. Many more masks still are in hiding, peeking out from the massive amount of cloth that shrouds the demon's lower body. You're reminded of red curtains. The fabric sticks out in every which way, creating a facsimile of a stage— though you cannot tell where the material ends, and the body of the demon begins. Every other inch of it is covered in ornate designs, beautiful hues of paint, and heraldry of forgotten civilizations.
You've never seen anything like it.
A demon of theater.
Ten voices ring out from the demon. Man and woman, young and old.
"Oh sweet speaking voice of temptation, for long have my children's voices rang out and cried in agonizing pain.
Now upon the steps of my home do you bring your blood, but what is your intent?"
The demon doesn't wait for a reply. Every single one of the monstrosities around you is raptly listening. You're raptly listening. It feels like you're glued to the spot.
A lone, soft, motherly voice. The demon gestures grandly, placing a mask before its mirror that looks like a grieving woman. "Burned in desire. Burned is our intent. No longer burned is our child. The Father has laid thee to rest."
The mask is whisked off. Three male voices all cry out in unison.
"Hail the Father! He who has brought the eye, borne witness to the chill of death!"
"Hail the Father! From decay, his body a thorn, pricked upon by the soft of mind.
"Hail the Father! The garden's flower. Grace us with thine gilded tongue!"
The light suddenly shines on you and all your company. Ten voices ring out in unison.
"To us it sounds as if the master of the house bids you, 'speak!' That's not what we need. Instead, we should look to this: how might one best carry out Drazhan's decree?"
You feel for a moment as if you can speak and move of your own volition. Hazarding a quick glance to Father Pevrel, you just barely catch his sharp gestures at the demon of theater.
Drazhan seizes. All the world's eyes are fixed on you and your allies, instead.
The lord of retribution grins slyly, and tenses his grip on his sword. "Justice. He'll be paralyzed for the exact same amount of Time." He's looking to the army that's inches away from crushing you all. A pair of demons less than ten feet away are frozen in mid-air. They're all transfixed by the appearance of you and your allies, and seem completely incapable of responding to any other stimuli. "I may have underestimated the strength of these demons."
Father Wilhelm gives you a weary look. "I know what you're thinking, Richard, but I'm already at my limit. We need to get out of here now if we want to stand a chance at surviving."
"Mind the Time," Father Pevrel says. Even through the amount of blood on him, he's visibly sweating, and backs up closer to you. "If you want to propose the coward's way out, make it count."
More frantically, Father Wilhelm shifts towards the door. "I'm no coward, but we're completely surrounded. Instead of holding our ground here—"
The door is gone. It's just a smooth panel of wood.
"Well if I'm not fucked by the moon and stars." You've never heard him sound so exasperated. The priest tenses both hands, splaying both trembling palms towards the wall. "I'll blast the wall clean open. This is likely an illusion, anyways—"
"How would you know?" You already know the answer, but can't help but ask.
"We've all tested the structure. It's only responded to a direct attack— your kick on the door. I'm certain that this is the work of the demon down there. If nothing else, it should be weaker once we get outside."
Father Pevrel seems to approve of the notion. "We can take them in the streets. Try to lose Drazhan, but stick together." He gives you a warning look, but can't help grinning through it. "If you want to do something you're going to regret, you've got less than ten seconds."
>All of the following are mutually exclusive.
>Majority vote will decide.
>As always, well-justified opposition will be taken into full consideration.
>In the event of a tie or unresolved discussion, QM discretion will decide.
>A] On both occasions that you called upon the God of the Tempest, you suffered from seizure and nearly died. To this day, you still suffer negative effects from it. Still, the only way you can see yourself getting out of this is by hitting Drazhan as hard as you can, as fast as you can, and doing so NOW. Trust your allies to protect you during the several minutes it may take to call upon your patron. Invoke Storm. (Due to many prior promises to not intentionally hurt yourself or to place yourself in unnecessary danger, vocal opposition will be taken into serious consideration.)
>B] You can invoke Mercy instantly. Do so, and use Her gifts to shield you and your allies as you make an escape. Protect and heal Father Pevrel and Father Wilhelm with everything you have. Between your synergy with the leader of the Church of Vengeance, and the raw amount of power that the leader of the Church of Dream possesses, you think...
>1] You'll be able to make it out alive. Don't take any chances with Father Wilhelm's life. Make for an exit, and keep heading towards your actual destination.
>2] You'll be able to turn this situation back in your favor. (Feel free to write-in any strategy you wish to employ.)
>C] You don't fear this monster, and you get the feeling that you aren't going to be in any danger at all if you play your part in Drazhan's show.
>1] Insist to your allies that you stay put. Be a passive performer.
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right? (Write-in.)
>D] Write-in. (As you are no longer suicidal— and due to the severity of this situation— write-ins will be subject to stricter scrutiny than usual.)
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Florin
Priest of Yech
>B] You can invoke Mercy instantly. Do so, and use Her gifts to shield you and your allies as you make an escape. Protect and heal Father Pevrel and Father Wilhelm with everything you have. Between your synergy with the leader of the Church of Vengeance, and the raw amount of power that the leader of the Church of Dream possesses, you think...
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right? (Write-in.)
Art is limitless! So let us take this show on the road! Let's see if this demon of theatrics is any good with improv, pull as many demons out in the streets and run a fighting retreat, absolutely never hold any ground. Stagnation is death here, ask Willhelm if he can make copies or illusions of demons from the crowd and have them attack their peers in an attempt to have them turn against each other. That is gonna be some drama.
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right? (Write-in.)
Art is limitless! So let us take this show on the road! Let's see if this demon of theatrics is any good with improv, pull as many demons out in the streets and run a fighting retreat, absolutely never hold any ground. Stagnation is death here, ask Willhelm if he can make copies or illusions of demons from the crowd and have them attack their peers in an attempt to have them turn against each other. That is gonna be some drama.
What is this? A demon already surrendering in the symbols of Mercy and we… Ignored it? This is unthinkable! We have crossed a line here.
We have been blinded by the moment! Penance be upon us! Immediate pushups and cunches once this is over.
We have regressed mentally in our persuit of the physical. It shames not only our Waifus, but Fleshbro in our progress backwards!
Greetings to the Father Wilhelm, Pevrel, and Anscham respectively.
Curious then that it refers to itself as not the master, but rather the hand that speaks for the group. Is it even Drazhan in truth? Even so, we dare not waste anymore energy than what is necessary, nor can we be seperated from the group. So hold hands and plan accordingly in this play of Fathers and Demons.
>C] You don't fear this monster, and you get the feeling that you aren't going to be in any danger at all if you play your part in Drazhan's show.
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right?
If we can manage to steer this into a favourable decision for all, well you can opt not to invoke.
A decree? Illuminate upon us for the sake of clarity. You speak of law yet the players and audience have not heard of it. Yet, fear not. For I have to answer upon my Goddess soon enough.
Before all else, the actors must present themselves accordingly:
In battle the Fathers have shed blood, both yours and ours. A way of the world it seems. For the dangers demons face upon men have called the us to unerring battle. Now as the battlelust cools we grieve, for human too we are or were.
I have come to bring a end a nightmare, the Cold Void- man's snare.-Father Wilhelm
I have come to judge and slay, a Thorn against Decay.-Father Pevrel
I have come to ease your agony, the Gilded Flower for a new day.-Father Anscham
Tell us your stories! For all our sin's bloody agonies,
Living eternity in squalor is but a poor play's hour.
Thus shall your voices be heard once more, like the preamble of a new choir.
Dare you seek once more the path of hope? Or shall ever the Catalyst be the falling slope?
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>B] You can invoke Mercy instantly. Do so, and use Her gifts to shield you and your allies as you make an escape. Protect and heal Father Pevrel and Father Wilhelm with everything you have. Between your synergy with the leader of the Church of Vengeance, and the raw amount of power that the leader of the Church of Dream possesses, you think...
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right?
Supporting Florin's write-in here.
>2] Reply to Drazhan, or do something spectacular. You came into this place expecting to entertain, right?
Supporting Florin's write-in here.
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Alaric
⠀
(Just to be totally clear, I wanted to make sure of the gist of your write-in. If I understand correctly, you are voting to ask the demon of theater what its decree is, want to express your own grief towards the blood that's been spilled during this encounter, and will ask for the demon to tell its own stories. Is that right?)
Chapter 74: The Demon of Theater
Alaric
⠀
Chapter 74: The Demon of Theater
Clutching at the bloody robes over your heart, you take a step forward. Down the steps, towards the corpse of a demon who asked you for Mercy.
They were granted none.
Mercy. I've failed you. I was more than blinded by the heat of the moment...
You still want to turn and run. To save your allies. To save yourself.
I've crossed the line. Penance be upon me. This isn't like me. I'm meant to be the lord of compassion.
There is quite literally a black line of defense on the ground that you've now crossed over. Father Pevrel grabs your arm, pulling at your sleeve before you can descend the steps ahead completely. "Are you sure about this?"
Stagnation is defeat.
I have to be better.
I have always wanted to be better.
You stay facing ahead, towards hundreds of monsters that could kill you at any moment. Without fear or hesitation in your heart, you cry out to all the theater.
"Thus speaks the Father: I have come to bring an end to the nightmare! The cold void! Man's snare!
Thus speaks the Father: I have come to judge and slay! A fatal thorn! Fear not decay!
Thus speaks the Father—"
Your body seizes. The demon has you. Your last few words are strangled, and barely leave your lips.
"I have come to ease your agony. The gilded flower. The dawning of a new day."
Father Wilhelm slowly lowers his hands from the wall. He's right at your back, ready to follow you to the depths of this nightmare— but becomes frozen in place. So does Father Pevrel, still standing at the peak of the steps.
Upon the stage, your host and entertainer sweeps a delighted mask across his features. The porcelain man is grinning from ear-to-ear.
"The title you bear is no vestige.
Go, pronounce your present message."
Breath fills your lungs, as motion and the ability to stagger forward is granted to you once again. Your soft voice fills the theater.
"In combat, we Fathers have shed blood— both yours and ours! The dangers that demons present to men have called us to action! As the heat of battle cools, I grieve. We grieve— for we are all human!"
A hand goes back to your heart. You stare the demon of theater down, and invoke your own ability.
"Tell us of your stories! For all our sins, our blood agonies—
Living an eternity in squalor is no way to spend your final hours.
Let your voices be heard once more, like the preamble of a new choir!
Dare you seek the path of hope—?!"
Your pitch drops. A warning, to every member of the audience.
"Or shall the Catalyst forever be a falling slope?"
The lights suddenly fall, but you still have control of your body.
Looking frantically to your allies, it seems that you're the only willing member of the audience— but their paralysis makes no difference. The sound of scraping and shuffling can be heard from the stage, as if something was being dragged through the sand at its base.
You dutifully stay in place for several seconds, in a cold sweat, trying to get the beat of your heart to slow. You have so much blood on you, and have been so focused on survival that you hadn't registered it yet, but the sickly-sweet smell of rot is on the air. It's intermingled with stale dust and paint— the latter entirely thanks to Father Wilhelm's invocations.
From the peak of the theater, a colossal light sweeps over the seats. Much of the audience is dead. Several skeletons lean against demons still made of Flesh and blood. Other corpses are in the process of decaying.
The spotlight settles on the stage. It's sparsely decorated with fake buildings, all constructed out of thin wood painted black. Tiny pieces of orange and crimson cloth are animated by some unseen force, emulating flames licking the bottom of each home.
At the center of the scene is Drazhan. His crown of quills has become as black as night. Before his face is the mask of a sneering, bearded man.
A King. But which one?
The King speaks with a foul, dark, and hateful voice.
"Piety is for fools so meek, so ill-virtued as to declare themselves befit only of others strengths? Let there be even-handed justice!"
King Vaughn, the Vengeful. He was Corcaea's last ruler, before King Magnus...
"Let us see the strengths of men."
Within another one of the demon's arms is the mask of a monster. Its gnarled horns and grotesque expression are still somehow beautiful, given its porcelain exterior.
"A curse 'pon the land," the King says.
A snarl from the monster. "The blood of the wicked."
Two more of its arms shake hands, giving the impression of the King bargaining with the unholy creature.
"No matter the sin," the King declares. "Let the error of ones ways be felt in the heart of our nation. Let it be felt by man, woman, and babe. Let my people's betrayal be felt in turn."
They betrayed him...?
The small flames at the base of every building rises higher. Drazhan drops the mask of the King to his side, and strides up to the side of one of the houses. In each of his hands is now a sadistic looking face. They all sneer towards each other.
"Woe be to us! Woe be to the King! The famine has been raging for ten years," says one.
"This age is at its end," say another. There's an odd pause, as if the script originally called for something the speaker can't say. "We all know who is most displeased."
The Gods? That can't be right.
"We cannot let our own families starve. Though this village may be filled with other lost souls, we must seize what is rightfully ours."
"Steal their crop."
"Kill the men!"
"Take their women!"
"Burn the rest to the ground!"
The flames rise higher, completely engulfing the village. Small, painted embers come to light within the cracks of each home.
A strange demeanor overtakes the demon of theater. From deep within the curtains on his lower body, Drazhan withdraws a single, smooth mask. Its only features are the thin trails of dripping porcelain off its sides. You're instantly reminded of the demon that Father Wilhelm just killed.
Taking the porcelain mask in one hand, Drazhan keeps it at arm's distance, and begins chasing himself around with it. He rapidly cycles through multiple other masks, emulating an entire crowd of people being pursued. The effect should be comical— but given the terror in each voice, the resemblance to humans in agony, and the sound of death that's falling from unseen lips— the image is unsettling to the extreme.
"One of them's turned!"
"The heat! The flame!"
"My children!"
"My home!"
"My lands!"
"They're going to kill us all!"
"Help me! Help me, please!"
One sole building props itself up at the very back of the stage. It's a perfect replica of the theater that you're currently standing in. Alit by its own unnatural light. Colossal. Ruined. A monument to drama, twisted by Time.
Drazhan lowers every mask, and walks up to the facsimile of his building beyond. He speaks in a completely normal voice. It's warm, and so soft that it could almost be mistaken for your own.
"Do not be afraid. I will not harm you. Nothing will enter these walls if I do not permit them. Come to my theater, and we will pass the ages together."
The theater stands, though every other building is slowly lowered to the ground.
Flames rage high, and Drazhan keeps the demon of porcelain's mask in hand. He begins walking back and forth in front of the theater, in a methodical patrol. He must do so for ten minutes.
It feels as if time stretches on into an eternity.
Giant clouds of dirt kick up, obscuring the world from view.
The stage grows cold, and every terrified voice begins to fade.
The sands of the stage fall into place. Dirt has settled over the last remnants of the burning, smoldering village.
The demon keeps pacing.
The light begins to dim, and ten voices ring out in unison.
"The King's test had reduced all the world to ash. Much had arisen from it, but the ceaseless discharge of hunger and pain could not compare to the fire that raged in us all. Granted the gift of eternity, one of us chose to stand above all others. Many may call this endeavor foolish, for death takes us all in the end. But is it not the nature of man? To endure against all odds? To stand up in the face of tyrants, and to seek a life of one's own?"
Only a speck of light can still be seen on stage. It illuminates the mirror upon Drazhan's face.
"You have heard our story, and now, we ask you to reflect."
Darkness envelops the theater. All that can be heard is the grieving speech of an entertainer, who has been at the bottom of the world for over six hundred years.
"That is Drazhan's decree."
>Porcelain faces visit you in the dark. The master of each mask has been waiting an age for a new audience.
>The demon of theater wishes for you to take in his performance.
>It's up to you how to respond.
>Remaining silent is a valid option. Otherwise...
>Write-in.