Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest

As a note, since people seem to be in favor of something like it (and also motivated by @vsh writing in) voting for [-] Love if a [-] No is taken on the kiss will be interpreted by me as a love for the people of the Cities in general, rather than Ambrose in specific (albeit still personally focused). I'll extend the vote 24h to let people change if they'd prefer.

"For duty" you say, and lean back, away from Ambrose.

You see a spark in his clear blue eyes – Aqshy – passion, rage, love. But it passes, and he inclines his head in respect.

"Lord Raven" he intones. "As you will. I cannot see it, to be frank, a redemption. But you see more with what the Gods have deigned give and these are your people, not mine."

He stands, gives a bow, and turns to go.

"You are one of my people" you say.

"And a curse on me for that" he replies.

You do not see him for the rest of the week.

...

Ding-dong.

The silver bell of the Roost rings for the first time you've arrived.

Ding-dong.

It is a call to prayer.

Ding-dong.

It is a call to rest.

Ding-dong.

It is the call of death.

Ding-dong.

You await within the Roost proper, in your fine black toga and raven-feather cloak. Your crown sold, one of those whose freedom it bought – Santo – has made a befitting substitute of black Morrite roses. None are at your side, as you stand behind the great stone door that is the entrance to your temple, this day and this day alone closed.

Outside, you hear the creak of the garden's gate, and the multitudinous steps of a great crowd. Now, your clergy will be bearing a simple oak coffin, unadorned. Inside, the bones (disturbingly easy to acquire) of some unknown pauper. He is the Everyman, and today he meets his doom.

The party will be lit by torchlight – the ritual of sanctification begins at midnight. The witching hour has always held to be the best time to speed the passage between worlds. The crowd's close enough you can hear weeping. The Melodus sisters are doing a good performance of it, their wails piercing through the stone. It is good. You wonder how their father's funeral went. Was the body even whole?

The voice of Pelops breaks you out of your thoughts. "Halt!" he cries, in a voice much older than his years, weighed down too with some honest grief. You had told him what had happened to Sanguine. He had taken it relatively well, but you can say from true experience it never gets easier to say goodbye, no matter how many times you've done it before. This particular dagger is not dulled by the cutting and slices true to the heart every time.

Iefyr approaches the door and pulls the great silver doorknocker, releasing it with the clang of metal on hard stone.

There is a moment of silence.

You speak clear and loud. "Who approaches the Portal to the Realm of Morr?"

The crowd takes a moment to reply, out of practice, but your clergy lead the charge.

"I" say they all, "Everyman".

You speak through the door again. "But why do you come now?"

"For the hour is late, and my bones lay cold, and I but desire to rest."

"This house is open, Everyman, to all who bring a gift" and you crack the door an inch.

There are perhaps a hundred people here, most dressed in mourning blacks. They watch you intently, as you appear from within, and you feel a cool breeze blow. You did not wear your sword today.

"For funds?" says Iefyr in a black silk gown, trimmed with harpy feathers. In Naggarond, he says, the poor put their corpses out on the street, coins under their tongues, in the hope that some noble will take pity and instead of bearing the indignity of rot, allow the body to be devoured by their hounds or eagles.

"No!" you cry, extending a hand and knocking the bag of denarii Iefyr offers to the ground. "What use is shine and glitter in this kingdom of the night?"

"For friendship?" says Maban. He is in black like you, but wears a necklace of knucklebones. His people keep them, casting the rest of the bodies in the water, for they say to forget the dead is for them to die a second death.

"No!" you reply, striking Maban's outstretched hand. "Here there is no fear or favour, no high or low. All are one, and one are all before Morr's sight."

"For faith?" says a figure you don't recognize in a cowl dark and deep. You Look, and for a moment, there is just you and your Lord in perfect silence and stillness.

You take a heavy breath and find yourself close to tears.

"No." you say. "The God welcomes each and every one, sinner or saint."

The black-robed figure tilts its head. You have a vision of you falling from the Tower. You have another, pushing someone off. Another, you inside, holding the Princeps dying. Another, the Princeps striking you down. The monster in the Tower tears you to pieces, then, you rip out its heart. The Tower falls, and every light in the world goes out.

Ding dong.

A million souls await at the Portal, and you are the guardian of the gate.

"For duty?" says Morr, God of the Dead.

"Yes" you say. "At the end of all labours, all journeys, all ways. Waste not the day, for hereafter is eternal. Speak now, for we forever hold this peace."

Morr and the crowd turn to the world, and wave farewell, then turn again, God and man, looking to you.

You open the door.

And led by your Lord, the Cities lay Everyman to rest.

A quiet, reverent, holy Doom.

That is your obligation.

Before you can have peace your own.

…

The crowds and clergy slowly trickle out of the Roost, after the final internment. Those bones, whoever they may be, may now sleep restful.

There is always an afterparty to these things, and Pelops and Rosamunde seem well at hand at organizing it. A cavalcade of caterers appears a tasteful interim after the ceremony, and in the gardens, with the graves, as the sun begins to rise, your people have a lovely picnic. To remember, and to reminisce, a proper lovely time.

The sisters Melodus are chatting to an old lady, a colonial, who's clearly come a long way to be here. She kisses them both on their cheeks, profusely thanking them for the ritual, and to repay them, produces a small box of sugar cane sweets from deep within her skirts.

Ielfyr is with three other Elves, one in the green flowing dresses of Avelorn, one with the sharp whip of those from Karond Kar, and another with the curious Ghyran twist to their soul that marks them as a resident of Athel Loren. Together, they sing some Eltharin hymns, beautiful and haunting.

Franka, Maban, and Santo are busy carving faces into squashes they call "Jacks". Inside they put candles, and put them on the tombs, a northern practice meant to protect a gravesite from robbers. The vegetables, with their chipper smiles, put a grin on your own face.

Mervin, in the corner, is making honey sweets for some visiting children. Rosamunde is talking the ear off some teenage girls from the Casbah, beaming at the interest they're showing in her as a "servant of the Raven". Pelops is lying in the grass, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed, basking in the sun.

A cool breeze blows and a shadow comes to stand beside you.

Morr surveys his garden, and your works, and though he does not speak, you feel a deep comfort, like jumping into a clear lake on a hot summer's day.

But only for a moment.

Morr gives you a surety of the quiet and the cold that awaits you, a dream without end. But now – the food is good, the chatter friendly, the rising sun so very warm. You are awake. Memento mori, indeed, but to know your death is not an invitation to meet it early but live well now. The hereafter – that is all taken care of. This world, these cities, these people – this is it, your charge and obligation. And you will do what must be done to save them.

You look at your God. He bows to you, and you are both together proud.

He vanishes, but with one final gift.

What do you see?

[-] Write-in. (Morr will answer, with absolute truth, any one question Xenophon might have.)

…

Ding-dong.

You break out of your prophetic reverie. You are not dead, there is still work to do.

But before you can react to what you now know, there is a roar of trumpets, and the stomp of feet, and a figure appears at the entrance to the garden – hair golden, teeth white, soul so very bright.

The Princeps has arrived.

AN: To be continued. Another pretty consequential vote, so a 24h moratorium please.