Chapter 85: Silver and Glass
"It would seem Dream was quite literal, in this case."
Father Wilhelm snickers, no doubt at you regarding Father Pevrel as your shadow. "It would seem so."
"We can talk to Father Pevrel the moment we leave."
Once we've explored this building's mysteries.
You shift around the side of the altar, right in the front of the hourglass, and take several broad steps back. "May I see the telescope?"
You're carefully handed the item, while Father Wilhelm moves beside you. He's all smiles. "Do you suppose there's more to this, then?"
"We're about to find out."
The item is caked so deeply in dust, you have to blow off an inch-thick layer just to see any of its details. It's no more than half a foot tall. The wooden frame is rotting, and the lovely inscriptions it bears are mostly lost to Time. The glass itself is perfectly intact, at least, and a fine blend of purple and blue dyed sand lies within. Your eyes sparkle at the sight of it, wondering if the substance possesses some otherworldly properties.
Keeping a safe distance, you put the telescope to work. "As badly as I would like to flip the glass to test its duration, it may not be mundane. We should be careful." You're smiling now, too. "Did you know that sand glasses— or sand clocks—"
"Clocks?"
"A Time-keeping device."
"I see."
There's no stopping you, once you get going about this sort of thing. Love for your Goddess lifts your soft-spoken voice into one of confidence and admiration. "The creation of sand glasses can be attributed to findings from the ruins. They're Relics of their own sort. Lost inventions from a more modern age. Sundials and water clocks are most commonly used in Corcaea today, but the convenience of a sand glass is second to
none. If one can find a glass blower, that is. Sand glasses are portable, and are used at times in the Church of Mercy by my clergy. Miniature ones can track the time for taking a pulse. They're favored by sailors, too, as they can be used reliably while sailing on water. The waves do not disturb them..."
You think you see something behind the glass, etched onto the interior of the wooden frame.
"What is it?" Father Wilhelm leans a little closer.
"It's in another language." Your frown could cut the glass that's distorting your view. You squint. "It's so small, I couldn't have seen it without the telescope. Just a few symbols—"
You nearly drop the telescope. Your head feels a little light just looking at the sigil. "It's elvish. Magic."
"What does it say?"
"I— I can't read it." This isn't going to deter you. You redouble your search on the item. "There must be some sort of enchantment on it. I can't imagine that it would be a curse. I will have to find a translator..."
Several minutes pass by in tense silence, while you scrutinize every other inch of the time piece. The rest of the etchings you can make out in the wood are of dunes of sand, rocky riverbeds, countless numbers, and beaches absent of the sea. There's no other writing, symbols, or glyphs that you can tell, aside from the phrase you already located.
You lower the telescope, hand it back to Father Wilhelm, and approach the hourglass with steady hands. Ungloved.
Ready for whatever pain is about to befall you, you take the item in both hands, and gently lift it from the altar. No curse befalls you. No terrible message from the Gods. You're just tired, and in so much pain that all you can think of is setting the item down as soon as possible.
"Judging by its size and weight—" You pause a moment, fighting against the pain in you to hold the hourglass up. It's mostly to get a better feel for it. The pain is also exquisite. You're blushing.
It's fine. "—and its location and lightness, this is most likely a sermonglass. I'd say that this wouldn't be capable of even measuring a full hour. The preacher who once owned it may have had a better way with brevity than I—"
Father Wilhelm chuckles, moving to help you with the item. You can only imagine that whoever led this temple must have used the item on countless occasions to time their sermons. It has you wistfully sigh, while seeing if you can fit the timepiece into your satchel.
It fits into the bag's opening easily, though you do have to wonder if it will hold up alright in the endless carrying space. Thinking better of the matter, you locate a spare shirt, and wrap up the sand glass in an ample amount of black fabric. It completely cushions your find, ensuring that the bundle goes back inside of your things without further incident.
Your gaze once again goes to the tapestries. "Father Wilhelm?"
"Hmm?" He's looking at you with serious concern, but doesn't pry.
"Would you help me with these tapestries? I want to see if they'll— if they'll fit in my satchel."
"Whew." He rolls back his blood/grass/paint-stained sleeves. "Alright."
The two of you manage to unhook the tapestries from the wall after no less than ten minutes of seriously struggling. Ultimately, you have to get Father Wilhelm up on your shoulders, utilizing your unusual height and his knack for creativity.
The fabric drops to the ground in a devastating cloud of dust, smelling intensely of mold. It feels damp to the touch while you set about rolling the first one up. You went for Arentia's, of course.
I have to ask Mercy and Agriculture about this. Are the names that I know Them by just Their titles? Do they have regular names as well? Are these regular names? Is this something that Mother Aimar would know about, too? Why have I never heard of any of this before?
Rolling the tapestry into the tightest bundle you can still has the item sitting at almost a foot in diameter. The roll of fabric is five feet long, and is so heavy that Father Wilhelm can't lift it without extreme difficulty.
Bracing yourself, you set about cramming the entire roll into your satchel. It just
barely fits.
You take another half hour to get the tapestry of Esthete off the wall, and to get both items completely into your bag. You're sweating by the end of it, your arms are aching, and you have no idea how you'll get either item out. Still, you couldn't be more pleased.
"These beautiful interpretations of our Gods
will be better appreciated elsewhere."
Father Wilhelm gives you a hand to get up from the floor. Both of you laugh as he's nearly pulled down with you.
"I don't suppose you'll be wanting to take the rest?" He's being incredibly careful with the telescope, and brushes more sand off the end of the item. Both of you are getting caked in grit too, thanks to the constant downpour from the ceiling.
"I'd like to see that for just one more thing, but you should be the one to keep it."
He doesn't even try to hide his smile. "Are you sure...?"
"It's only right. You're the leader of the Church of Dream. Just
think of the
generations of men and women you could teach with such a thing. And— and besides, I—" You want to say that you could never repay the man for all of his kindness, even if you had one hundred artifacts at your disposal this very instant. You're fidgeting with the sand that's collected on your shirt, but you manage to keep smiling at him. "I really wouldn't know how to use it. I trust that it would be best held in your experienced hands."
He pulls you into a one-armed hug. "Thank you, Richard. I'll put it to good use."
You return the hug with both arms, and enough gusto to make the priest shout a little from the force of it.
"Easy!" He's still laughing. "Easy. Don't make me go asking for Mercy, now."
You ease up, eyes lingering on the holy book still sitting at the altar. "I'd be happy to keep the telescope with my things for safe-keeping, when we're done here. Just while we're traveling, of course."
"Of course." He hands the item off to you, also looking now to the altar. "Let's do this carefully, then."
The book's bindings are nonexistent, having been lost to the sands of Time. Literally. There is sand caking the entire top of the book. It's only thanks to the text's luminescent properties that you were able to read it at all. The cover has disintegrated along every visible edge, and you're more certain now than ever that it could be blown away if you do so much as breathe in the book's general direction.
Just to be sure, you take several steps back, and angle the telescope to get a better look at the top two pages.
They're magnified so closely, you can't read more than a letter or two at a time. It takes many minutes of pouring over the page to confirm that the telescope does not have any enchanted properties that would synergize with whatever secrets this text might hide.
Sister Cardew's glasses would have come in handy, here.
Cursing a little to yourself, you bundle up the telescope in the same fashion as the sand glass, and nestle it within your satchel.
Father Wilhelm stares you down, puffing away at his cigar. "You're going to invoke, aren't you?"
"Yes." You clasp your hands together.
He takes a couple of steps back. "I'm right here if you need me. Alright?"
Your hands part, looking to your mentor with disbelief. "You're not going to try and stop me?"
"I said I would keep an eye on you, so here I am." The mild-mannered priest gives you a tired smile. "It's none of my business how you live your life, Richard. Besides, I do believe this is out of our hands otherwise."
You take a minute to give him another hug (he gladly returns it), before standing before the center of the altar.
There's simply no way that you're getting any further information out of this text— or preserving it for future study— without resorting to divine intervention. Flipping a page would destroy it. If you had the materials on hand to repair the pages, you might be able to restore this text over many weeks, if not months, but certainly not now.
"Father Wilhelm?"
"Hmm?"
"You— you don't suppose that Spirit knows how to repair pages, do you?"
"Ah." His smile falters. "I do doubt that. She's the Goddess of the
immaterial, after all."
"Right." You're in a cold sweat. "And how do you interpret all of this?"
"I haven't changed my tune. I think this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." The brunette sheepishly grins. "I wouldn't ever dare ask you to invoke on my behalf unless it were a matter of life or death— but I would be lying if I said that I didn't hope you would find a way to preserve this. It's just as important to me, in regards to study of my church, as well."
You're going to hug him again, at this rate. "I know I can live without knowing its contents— and with the shape that I'm in, I—"
"You might as well go on ahead." He takes another step back, for good measure. "It's alright."
Hands clasped together, you close your eyes, and pray.
"Spirit. Though you are never far from my thoughts, I call upon you now as a
last resort. Before me lies a relic of a
forgotten age. Share with me your wisdom, that I may preserve Your word. Their knowledge. Our people's worship. Their lives should amount to more than
dust. I ask this of you with the utmost respect for your creed. I ask this of you out of devotion to Time and Dream. I beg of you, permit me to save this most holy work! Permit me to serve Dream and Time through your
sanity. Grant me your sight. Grant me your
integrity! Goddess of Knowledge! The immaterial
MUST be known!"
Your soul tears at the seams.
A scream rips itself from your lips, but you manage to not fall forward onto the altar.
"Richard—" Father Wilhelm keeps his distance, watching in horror as strands of thread start to stream down from your eyes.
Father Pevrel bursts through the front doors of the temple, and practically comes running. "What the fuck—?!"
You clutch to the sides of the altar, unable to blink. The thin, white substance leaking from your eyes pools around your hands, and rapidly snakes into the holy book resting before you. Each thread swiftly begins to reconstruct its exterior.
At the same time, you're hit with an endless font of knowledge.
There are countless pages within the tome that are lost to Time— but not to Spirit. That which is decayed or faded beyond all recognition floods into your mind. It's not encoded in any way. There is no hidden text. These are the plain teachings of a forgotten civilization.
King Vaughn "the Vengeful" attempted to unite all the people's of Corcaea under the banner of equity. Every man, woman, and child was to uphold his law to the letter. An unseemly system, designed with clergy and King in mind. The King of Punishment saw to it that his religious teachers would educate the populace on the merits of prolonged suffering. Minor infractions were to be punished with far more extremes than even what you are used to witnessing today. Major infractions would be met with fates infinitely worse than death.
The common man could never be expected to uphold the strictness or cruelty of such a rule. There is no talk in this text of uprising, though. The mouthpieces of the Gods would speak only of servitude.
Along with the King's law, there's talk of balance among the Gods. A revolutionary system was proposed, to study the counterpoints of each opposing deity, and to find a way to balance Them. No simple solutions are listed. Instead, the bulk of the holy text is dedicated to observance of convoluted practices meant to circumvent the teachings of one God in an attempt to please both of Them. It touches on the merits of doing so with all of the Gods, but its focus is primarily that of Time and Dream— who are consistently referred to by the names you saw on the tapestries you've repossessed.
During the reign of a King of shadows, those who governed space and the night— Arentia and Esthete— were regarded over six hundred years ago as the primary deities of Corcaea, not even second to Vengeance (who is here named "Nemescian"). It was believed that rather than elevating one God above another, the greatest wisdom was to be found in observing all of Their will.
A sentiment that is near and dear to your heart. We know you are paying close attention.
In Arentia's case, strict observance of punctuality and productivity was regarded as sacred. The greater the work output of a given subject in the realm, the greater their position in society. Those who were capable of working through the night were elevated to positions of extreme wealth and authority— allegedly in respect to the Goddess. Conversely, those who failed to achieve were tried as heretics, or forced to work under conditions dictated by the Church of Vengeance.
These values still hold true to this very day. The Goddess of the Ages is, paradoxically, Timeless.
As for Esthete, one's productivity was to be measured in observance of the practical arts. Every waking endeavor was to be made in service to the God. There is a creative spin listed on everything from how to look after one's personal hygiene, to the rearing of children, to how to grieve for the loss of one's wife. Much of these teachings are intentionally omitted. The holy men or women who once preached here would have guided their congregation into devising their own, unique approach to life and all that they were expected to do with it.
Not so challenging for a man who lives or dies by his unpredictability. There is wisdom to be found in when not to do such a thing, too.
On top of the stringent legal system and unreasonable expectations towards the common man, there is also strict guidance laid out for clergy. It's all there in the book, which now has a repaired cover and spine, and is intact enough for you to carefully transport.
You collapse forward, ready to black out, but find yourself caught by the back of your robes by Father Pevrel before you can fall onto the altar.
Your shadow doesn't seem to give a shit that you're in the throes of a Goddess. Silver light bursts and flares from around his body— you're certain it's a trick of the thread-soaked eye— while he keeps you standing.
He speaks, but you can't process whatever is being said. His meaning is made clear to you, instead.
"I've been worried sick about you. I shouldn't have left. Can you release Her?"
You pause, looking with impossibly wide eyes to the altar. The holy book is closed, and on it is a silver cover. Etched into the front in white writing are the words, "The Little King's Law."
This is not the original title, which simply said, "King Vaughn's Law." This moniker is what He was known as in life, and is far more befitting of His reign.
The invocation ends, and with it, you collapse on top of the altar— dragging Father Pevrel with you.
"Anscham. Anscham, wake up." You're being slapped. Hard.
"Mercy—"
"Don't 'Mercy' me. Wake up." You can hear the smile in Father Pevrel's voice. He slaps you one more time, and swiftly steps back to avoid you punching him on reflex.
You drag yourself up from the altar, groaning and rubbing at the side of your cheek. You're greeted instead by the sight of a dilapidated temple, and two incredibly worried priests.
"It worked," Father Wilhelm says. He's cradling the colossal holy book in his arms, as if someone is going to snatch it from him at any moment. He glances towards Father Pevrel before handing it off to you.
The lord of wrath looks like he's so pissed, his anger has looped back around towards cold judgement. His hard gaze follows the book as it's handed off, then stares you down.
You feel like shit. The ache in you has redoubled, but there's none of the usual mental devastation that used to accompany your more abusive invocations of Spirit.
She heard.
She listened.
You take the weighty item in both hands, before holding it close to your heart.
She talked to me.
"The Gods are
Merciful."
>A] Go explore the basement! Adventure awaits! You're probably going to keel over halfway there, but you're going to try, dammit!
>B] Father Pevrel is probably going to kill you at this rate. Head out, and see what's been bothering him while you march.
>C] Take a moment to give your thanks to Spirit. You've only correctly invoked Her a few times before, and you want to set a better precedent.
>D] You are
really trying to take better care of yourself. Propose that you all leave. Go make camp somewhere safe in Sunset Hallow, and study this tome under the stars.
>E] Write-in.
? Strong positve or negative emotion could be involved.
