Live in Infamy

You find Lisara in her room, slumped back in a plush armchair and staring blankly out the window at the overcast sky beyond. There is a bottle of wine in one of her hands, still sealed and untouched, and the pendant on its chain dangles loosely from the other. You stand in the doorway for a moment, uncertain what to say or how to begin, and in the end settle for simply clearing your throat.

"Come in, Val," Lisara says bleakly, not looking back at you, "You might as well."

You make your way inside, stepping awkwardly around a stained plate left unattended on the floor. In fact, there are far more pieces of abandoned cutlery and dirty clothes strewn across the room than you would have expected, especially given how diligent the servants usually are.

"I thought…" you say, a little hesitantly, considering the bed. It would make the easiest place to sit, but given what your companion has doubtless gotten up to in it you'd really rather not. Instead you drag another of the armchairs over from the corner and settle down yourself. "Well. You seemed… distressed."

"Did I?" Lisara says airily, before snorting and shaking her head. "Of course. Written all over my face, was it?"

Again you hesitate. Ancestors but you're bad at this sort of thing, you have zero idea what to say and even less experience, but the way she looked after Thorn threw her the pendant… you had to do something, and this was a thing that you could do. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

Lisara is silent for a long moment, her deep blue eyes fixed on something only she can see. You settle in to wait in silence. You are good enough for that much, at least.

"Do you know," Lisara says at length, "How the House of Darius got its start? Its claim on the throne?"

You frown, dredging up the memories. You can't say you expected this kind of response, but simple facts and figures have always been your speciality, and you had plenty of reason to learn the history of the rulers you so despised.

"Markaddian the First won his throne on the fields of Tamberlyn, every child knows that, but the claim…" you rack your brains for a moment, "It came through blood, did it not? A marriage between his father, the Duke of Mathryn, and an elf of the ruling house."

Lisara gives you a crooked smile, lifting her bottle of wine in limp-wristed salute. "Guilty as charged."

Your jaw drops open, and it takes a few moments before you even remember how to form words. "That was you?"

"Yup," Lisara drawls, drawing out the word until it pops from her mouth like a cork from the bottle, "Ol' Marcellus had worked his little boots off taking Mathryn from a fishing village to a proper demesne, and he was starting to get antsy about being 'recognised'. Seeing as it was right on the mouth of the Cambrian Bay, perfectly positioned to cut off all shipping to Ghastenhall any time he got pissy, my dear brother decided it would be a good idea to get him inside pissing out rather than the reverse."

You're not too used to this sort of heartfelt reminiscing, but even you can see how Lisara's grip on the bottle is tightening, how gemstone-hard her blue eyes have become. You could almost mistake them for the sapphires in the pendant she still clutches.

"A Ducal title, then," you say slowly, "And… a marriage to join and legitimise the house. Did he not… it doesn't sound like you knew Duke Marcellus well. Uh. Before."

"It wasn't a love match, no," Lisara chuckles bleakly, "When you're highborn, they never are. My brother did me the courtesy of explaining the politics behind it all, which is more than most get. So, for the good of the realm, I let the new Duke put a ring on my finger and his cock between my legs."

You shift, a trifle uncomfortable, but you say nothing. What right would you have to tell Lisara how she ought to speak of her husband and her marriage?

"Long story short, he got an heir out of me nine months later, and a spare just over a year after that, which should have been the end of it," the elf woman sighs, tilting her head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Of course, Marcellus went and died less than a decade later, while they were both still infants. Fell off his balcony, of all the damned things. Not that I was complaining, but he could have picked something a little less suspicious looking. Half the city was convinced I'd done for him myself."

You wonder, briefly, if Marcellus had a wife before Lisara, or someone he loved even as he married for political gain. Is that why she speaks so sourly of him, even after all this time?

"How does this relate to the pendant?" you say, gesturing vaguely at the icon in Lisara's hand.

"Oh, this thing? It's mine. I commissioned it, at any rate," the noblewoman turns it over in her hand to expose a maker's mark and dedication on the back, long faded to just a handful of smudged marks, "I stayed in Mathryn until Marcellus' heir was old enough to take his throne, for the sake of appearances. He'd really taken to the Mitran faith by that point, what with all the tutors the Church sent him, and I thought… well. It made for a fine parting gift."

What does it mean, you wonder, that Lisara won't even refer to her son by name? She clearly played little role in her son's education and upbringing, allowing the Church and its priests to tutor and prepare the Duke's infant heir, sowing the seeds of zeal in his soul. If she had reached out sooner, tried harder, would the Darians have ever come to power? Would the Zealot's purges have ever taken place? So many questions, so few of them with any merit, and yet the thought gnaws at you.

"Then, Sir Balin," you hazard, after it becomes clear Lisara isn't going to keep talking, "Was he…"

"One of mine? Gods I hope not," Lisara chuckles, casting a brief look over at where her rapier rests against the far wall. The point is still red with blood. "He might have been a bastard, I suppose, but more likely he did some great service for the royal line at some point and got given my little gift as a token of esteem. Like Thorn said, templars often carry such things."

Did Thorn know of this connection? You think he must have, in general if not the particular, else why would he have given the token to Lisara and shown so little overt interest in her reaction? But if so, what did he mean by it?

Well, whatever the truth may be, you have your answer. No wonder Lisara looked as if she had been assailed by a ghost. A piece of her own history, come back to her by way of a man dead at her hand… you think you'd be plenty rattled too. You have no idea what to say about it, but at the very least, you can be here for her while she works through it. What else are friends for?

-/-

Hellfire has a smell unlike any other. Most flames carry with them a scent born of their fuel, be it wood or oil or molten rock, but Hellfire burns by the will of the gods alone, and the stench of roasting divinity is hard to put into words. It is said there is nothing in all creation that cannot burn in those immortal flames, and if the preachers are to be believed such is the fate that awaits the soul of every unrepentant sinner to walk the mortal realms. A fanciful tale, loosely correlated to planar metaphysics at the best of times, but when faced with the fires below it is all too easy to call those old sermons to mind.

Nine great columns of infernal flame burn here, in this place to which Thorn has brought you. You cannot truly say where it is, nor in fact how you got here, save that the Cardinal willed it and your mind had no room for anything else. You stand upon a table of stone, a dining place sized for giants suspended between the columns of flame, the surface carved in an exactingly perfect map of Talingarde. Save for those details, the rest of the world holds nothing except darkness and the things that skulk within. You do not care to look too close; Thorn has given you nightmares enough already.

The Cardinal stands at the head of the table, the patriarch in his rightful place with Mathryn beneath his boot, and behind him stand the devils. You know them by class and clade, have studied their ranks in depth, but in this place it is hard to bring such trivial details to mind. All you can see is leathery skin and barbed armour, cruel blades and crueller masters, and the reflection of the hellfire echoes back at you from gleaming fang and shining eyes alike.

The hosts of Hell have opened their veins, and now their blood pools in a great basin set at the Cardinal's feet. With ritual solemnity he dips his hands in the gore, and with paternal fondness he anoints you in his service, painting runes of power and dedication across your brow and cheeks while you kneel still as mountain stone before him.

"And thus, my Ninth is forged," the Cardinal says, stepping back and bidding you rise with his hands. You clamber to your feet and step back, joining your three companions in a neat rank, the blood of devils binding you together. "Of all my many blades you, my children, shall be the sharpest, shall cut our enemies the deepest. Hail, the Immortal Ninth!"

"HAIL!" A hundred devils roar your name, a thousand soulforged weapons slam against the ground. The furious acclaim of Hell washes over you like a tide, and deep within your soul, something stirs in response.

Article:

What do you feel at this moment? Lit by hellfire and saluted by devils, what shadow takes root in your heart?

This is an approval vote. Select as many options as seem fitting to you.

[ ] Avarice
What could you do with this kind of power, with such strength bent to your will? The shape of it is yet unclear, but the scope takes your breath away, and you swear to yourself in that moment that whatever it takes, you will have it.

[ ] Desire
To rouse devils with a word and make killers kneel at your feet appeals in ways far stronger and more visceral than you had anticipated. You will have such power for your own, master of all you survey, and you will wield it with pleasure.

[ ] Envy
Thorn is the master here, with such strength at his command, but what if the positions were reversed? What if you were the master, and he the servant? Oh, how sweet such a victory would be. How dangerous such a dream could become.

[ ] Hunger
This is not enough. He has trained you and shaped you, but your strength is yet meagre, your resources few. You must have more. It must be by your wills the fires burn, your command the devils roar, and from any source you can find, you will take what you require.

[ ] Satisfaction
Every oath honoured, every promise fulfilled. Thorn has made you strong, and now he sets you to your task, boon companions at your side. It is a strange brand of confidence that fills you now, but such certainty brings with it a strength all of its own.

[ ] Wrath
His sharpest blades, Thorn called you, and oh how right he is. A reckoning was promised, judgement for Talingarde and all its sons, and now the time comes to see it through. After that, who knows - perhaps you will have a reckoning with the monster who shaped you as well.