You doubt. You came to this city on the faith of Morr. As he did a favour once for you, you swore the same to He – a life for a life. But you swore that oath to the God of Death on the promise of liberty. Here and now, in these Cities, with people you – beyond sense – do care about, what the Divine seeks to wreak seems not freedom but just one plot among many. So you grip your sword, and if not break – bend – your vows to respect the peace of the dead. For what worth is that is that versus war for the living – or worse? You want to know – have spend these last weeks in a panic, trying to get some measure of your nightmare and you
will know – no more faith, but your effort – man's effort – alone.
A dead dwarf floats above an endless pit, split in twain – the innocent beginning, and the bitter end. It screeches at you. You act, holding your blade as a barrier in front of you. Yanking out the
Songs of the Raven from your bag, shouting "FIAT MORS!" – let there be death. The specters quivers at that, joins together for a moment, splits apart, the child now as wounded and disgusting as its elder. They rise up to the ceiling, screaming "UZKUUUUL!!!!" and clap their hands as one. The walls shake, and a thousand petrified hands rise out, grabbing at your skin, your clothes, your hair.
[Risk: Hecatoncheires –
Flip: Heads (Success)]
Pelops cries out in pain as a gnarled fist smashes into his ribs. You grunt in pain as one jabs its cold fingertips into your ankle. As an automatic reaction, you swing your sword at the one attached, and watch as it goes through this and the next like butter. Clean steel through solid stone – the hands de-animate as fragments of soul are cut free and melt in Pelops' candlelight. And then you know what to do – an old ritual in and older book, an example from an older acolyte of what never to do.
Jamming the
Songs under your arm, you root through your pocket as you rush towards your Knight, slicing at hands and arms and fists, a whole army of stonework that desperately tries to bar your path. Finally, you find what you're looking for – a silver chime; what's usually used to signal the completion of a sanctification. You reach Pelops, and chop off a grasping limb as it tries to wrench away
Final Rest. The boy's got a black eye, but nods at you fierce. You shout "On me – snuff it!" and fling the
Songs at the specter's joint head. Your holy book flies through the air, splaying open on the image of Morr the Harvestman, scythe at the ready. You ring the chime – one clear "Ding!" and an explosion of holy magic as Pelops puts out the light, and the
Shyish kept at bay floods in .
[Risk: Bell, Book, and Candle –
Flip: Heads (Success)]
There's darkness, absolute – just you and Pelops' breathing to break the absolute gloom. But then, a thud of paper on stone. There's no grasping hands. You light a match, and walk forward – the
Songs sits at the edge of the pit. You pick it up and open it – and there is Hadrin, as he was in life, in fine bejewelled toga, with amber runes tattooed – his mouth open in a silent scream, trapped eternal in your pages. You've desecrated your holy book – but won a fair prize.
The door creaks open behind you. A winded Kakram peers through it, with the Slayer. The words form in your mind "All's well?". You think if you told him what you'd done, he'd strike you where you stand. Your sword vibrates slightly, as if to agree. You notice that all the hands have melted back into the stone, and bar the known hole, the phantasm has for all intents and purposes, vanished. So you nobly lie - "Just Morrite practice – forgive me."
[Risk: Umgak – Flip: Tails (Failure) [PELOPS INTERRUPT] Bonus Flip: Heads (Success)]
The two shake their head at
Umgi foolishness, and turn away. You only realize a split-second after Pelops was facing away from you, so they didn't notice his much more inexplicable black eye. The boy looks to you, and asks "Did we set him to rest?". His grey eyes are so terribly earnest, you can't yourself bear to break that faith. "He won't be hurting anyone anymore" you reply – which is true. And the Knight believes his Raven.
…
You set Pelops the task of lining the Gazul-runes against the outside walls of the house, something that should buy you a half-hour of time. So you decide to introduce yourself to your new friend. Your immediate instinct is to speak to the book, though that seems to induce nothing, bar the ringing of the chime, though that just makes Hadrin's expression become more rictus and his eyes more bloodshot. Applying a quill liberated from a nearby desk doesn't work – the ink runs straight off, turning a rusty orange as it does. That's what gives you the hint. In for a penny, in for a pound, you think, as you cut your hand with your sword, dip the nib in your own blood, and write.
[Risk: Hemomancy –
Flip: Heads (Success)]
It sticks. You query.
"How did you die?"
The page flips of its own accord. An illustration is drawn with your blood as its ink, painting over the
Songs of Morr. Two Sons stand above a prone Hadrin, along with two human men, one in the black robes of the Brotherhood of Moulder, one in the emotionless mask of the Cleansing Flame. They are petrified to their waists, but have twisted their bottom-haves into long, serpentine forms like Fafnir Fogfather, Grandmaster of their people. They are in a bedroom – there is no pit. One of the Dwarves affixes a tiny silver cage to the ceiling, engraved with what looks like Nehekaran hieroglyphs. The Flame man surrounds Hadrin with a circle of crystals which look exactly the same as the ones Floridus used in his ritual. The Sons stand before their victim, and chant something, silent on the page. The crystals glow, and Hadrin's body rises up. Then a Son begins to savage it with some sort of bone knife, tearing out his eyes, scratching "MALOK" with furious, wild blows into the Dwarf's chest. As he does, the Moulder begins to incant a spell, holding book and bell, the Dwarf beside him with candle.. You recognize it, for you just cast a version –
the Animus Imprisoned. The candle's snuffed. The soul rises from the body – bleeding, with MALOK carved into it too. It flickers, and is sucked into the cage. The hieroglyphs glow, and you see all there cover their ears. The cage begins to grow within wicked black crystal spikes, and you see the soul be punctured once, twice, a dozen times. It's writing in pain, so much so that the ceiling of the whole room is shakes. But perhaps it's not Hadrin. A hole begins to open up in the floor. One Dwarf nudges the other, as if they've been expecting this. They both draw blades with runes with such potent anti-magic they actually tear the page, rips forming wherever they swing them. The man from the Cleansing Flame waves his hands, and above and between the body and the crystals, a shining silver net. Then - a tower of blue flame – not of blood, but literal fire – erupts from the book. You stumble back. The holy text of Morr crumbles into ash – you see the soul inside let out a final screech, and be incinerated into nothing.
FURY is what the fireball imprints into your head. Rage, so deep and profound it is beyond words. It sets your bones alight – you feel a desperate panic in your chest, but you should – won't- can't- move. You feel judged, and under the headman's axe, powerless.
But you aren't smitten. It swings around wildly, floating around the room. It doesn't seem to sense you. Your sword vibrates in your hand, and you get the sense of a smirk. At once, it with a whoomph disappears back into the hole.
You watch it go, and give it a last Look. You fall backwards, as you're blinded, and blink away the afterimage of a God's avatar. It's the same energy you saw erupt from the pit on Petrification Day, the same apologetic deity at the sealed pit, the same blue fire that criss-crosses Kakram's heart – a tiny, infinitesimal part of Gazul.
You think for a moment. What just happened – the fireball – couldn't have at Hadrin's death. There was a body, first and foremost, not burnt; plus only one. So where'd the other three go? You look at the pit. Did they … catch part of Gazul? Was that even possible? Was it a trap – something so blasphemous the divine couldn't' resist attacking even the echo of that cursed event? And if so – what for? Worse – if that was the plan – was this writ large? A mass sacrifice and the unthinkable – the death of Death for the Dwarves? Or for all the gods writ large?
You remember your soul research, and the possibility of the Princeps' plan for mass immortality. You shudder, and watch the ashes of Morr's holy book fall and be swallowed by the endless dark.
…
The sanctification is not much work after that, though by your measure, a little weak. A few words you're not sure you believe in, the sprinkling of some holy water taken from the Roost's most ordinary well, a sealing performed by Kakram that you think could be undone by any determined man with a functional pickaxe.
He sends a note to the Roost later, asking what you've learned. What do you say?
[] Everything.
You don't want to have a Grudge against you.
[] Something.
What you could describe of the two MALOK men, and the complicity of the Lodge and the Flame. Valuable info, but very much partial.
[] Something significant.
The description, and that you sensed a blasphemous ritual against the God(s) of Death. As much info as you can, without outing yourself for your own heresy. A bit suspicious – why'd you know about that sort of thing?
[] Nothing.
He's not told you anything, really. Why should you?
[] Lies. [Write-In]
Sic an angry dwarf on someone.
AN: Very lucky. 
🤢
