Part MMMDCXLIV: Precipice
Precipice
Thirteenth Day of the Third Month 294 AC
Upon an island darkly stood an altar forged threefold, of sunken stone and driftwood, adorned with gold given in sacrifice. The driftwood kindled, the fire burned and in its light emeralds like serpent's eyes glittered. A tree hung over it, casting a shadow of crimson leaves. Four powers to one goal summoned, four hands upon the dagger bright. It was the work of divine crafting, it was the work of mortal hands, it was the work of a king's generosity, it was the work of realms unborn.
The Hour was Almost at Hand
Four pairs of eyes watched it most closely, the elder serpent come ashore, the younger swirling through the waters, the devils just marked in sacrificial flame and the Last Greenseer upon his pale throne. All around stood the guards gathered both by fate and choice, rebel angels again rebelling and dead men who had never lived, spirits of the green and creatures of glass and dragon steel. Above them all a dragon flew, a watcher on sky blue wings.
The Hour was Here
Through a thousand arcane threads, the truth of it flowed. It was a whisper in the air, but the mist muffled it, it was a rustle in the leaves, but the lords of the green stilled it. It was a groaning in the earth, but the Great Serpent quieted it. It was the crackle of the fire and a ripple in the water, and here Aiofe, a herald new-made for a god of old, failed to break the wave and so a rumor the Working reached far and wide. A death scream echoing back into eternity.
You can hear it
In this place and in this hour you can hear them too, the voices of gods and the contentions of the powers. It is almost as though your fingers brush against divinity raised up by the swelling of the gods' attention. In the distance you can hear a golden horn and the sound of silver hooves. You grasp the Crown in your hand. "They are coming," you say as the wind begins to pick up. Zathir is not in control of the winds now. This is not his fight.
"How do you think they'll come?" Waymar asks reaching for Purity's hilt. The crystal upon its guard pulsed. "Just tear a gate right here or fly in? Or maybe swim..."
Tyene glances at the water, Malarys looks to the sky, Bahro takes a unnecessary breath, in the distance skyships flash like golden fish through the azure heavens. All around you nothing seems to move.
Then the Crown seems to writhe under your hand and to your surprise you hear a woman's voice whispering from within, young as sunrise and old as the world. "Why would you see us wither, Dragon Lord, by fire, by venom and poisoned water?" The sorrow runs so deep you feel the corners of your eyes sting.
"Who are you who seeks to twist my mind to your whims?" you ask sharply. The voice and the power behind it seems distant, an echo's echo. You can push it out, of that you are certain, and also... it, she is afraid.
"I am She called the Star Crowned and I know your mind," comes the reply as you approach the pyre. No sooner would you start casting bottles and petrified fiends into the flame that it will grow to envelop the sacrifices in a spiral. "Now I would ask that you answer me. Are we not all enemies of the Great Enemy?"
What do you reply?
[] Stall for time while you perform the ritual (Builds up from the fiend sacrifices to the crown)
-[] Write in
[] Refuse to answer, cast the crown into the fire and set the great curse in motion
[] Answer in good faith, perhaps you can use the fear you sense, the lack of preparation on the part of the Court of Stars to obtain their pledge
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: I can't show you most of the rolls for this part since they would be spoilers, but I can show this: nat 20 on sense motive. The fear Viserys is hearing is real. The question now is do you guys feel like negotiating in the last moment?
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