Safety first.
You're made your choice – you are a Priest of Morr. And with your defeat of Necoho, your old weapon is a pile of cooling slag on your cell floor. But your God always carried a scythe – so you cannot go unarmed. You think a second, on what you might get. There are the weapon shops in the Cloisters, of course, if you want Elven truesteel or some Belthani artefact, but it feels wrong to request something foreign. The magical districts are right out, no matter how much a flaming sword or flying mace might be useful. With the Key, which you now kept on a chain around your neck, tucked beneath your robes, you needed mundanity. No – all of this was City arrogance. You were a holy man, not a warrior. Your victories were of faith, not of battle. You needed no great blade. Morr used what – not a true weapon, but a tool. The harvestman cuts the corn. You have your dagger on your hip. Your dagger which you made your oaths to Dwarfs and Men and Gods. It is plain steel, with simple leather as the hilt. It is not, as the aristocrats favored, embossed with your initials or a tally of victorious duels, or enchanted, or anything such. But it is yours, and yours alone. And that, in this great chaos that is erupting all around you, is what you can rely on.
So, you take the blade, your trusty dagger, and lay it on the altar of your little shrine in your cell. Carved into the hollow is an engraving of a raven, and Pelops has seen that it is otherwise filled with fresh black roses and long lit tallow candles.
You kneel and lapse into silence.
Meditation is the most ancient practice of your order, and one you do not practice enough.
Unbidden, a memory comes to you, as the old metal of your knife reflects the flicker of the flaming wicks.
You are young, very young, and Aoife is cutting fruit. You reach up to grab a slice of mango – quick – too quick, and she just by accident, cuts you. You scream – and she swears and drops to her knees as you begin to blubber. Blood pouring from the little scrape, you tremble, as she embraces you.
"I am sorry, my dear – I'm sorry." Aoife says.
"It hurts!" you cry.
"It will pass." she says, "If you are brave. And you are – because you tried to take this-" and she offers you the slice your tried to steal.
You take it, gladly, holding back your tears. There is a tang of iron – your own spattered blood – but it still tastes sweet.
A flame flickers out, and you're brought out of your reverie.
You Look, and your dagger shines. The steel near glows a pale white; sharp as the full moon cutting the dark night sky.
You pick it up, and it feels right and solid in your hand. It is tied to you, the Roost, to Morr.
It is your faith, now manifest. Of a Good End for all.
You are a holy man, and you are armed.
GAINED: ATHAME
A sacred dagger. Sanctified in the Roost of Tylos-Kavzar by the Raven himself, it cuts through all spellwork and illusion, especially that which keeps things past their apportioned time.
Cecilia has elected to help you interrogate Her-Ben. With her long experience as a medium for the wealthy, an insane Nehekaran was, according to her "a relaxing change of pace". You would not necessarily agree, considering the amount of screaming he does in his rooms– but help is help, and confidence a bonus.
Your aim here is to figure out what exactly Rosamunde saw with S-Nefer-Ka in Little Khemri with the Ushabti that spat out a sandstorm activated-via-priest-corpse. Her-Ben, who sitting in the corner, skin and bones in his stained linen rags, mumbling to himself some priestly incantation, tearing his fingers raw on his old bronze circlet prying the gem-embedded hieroglyphs of the Gods, is as close to a mummified Nehekaran you're going to get without going all the way over, so here you are.
"My lord?" You're not really sure of the terminology, but Cecilia is trying her best "Lord Her-Ben?"
He does not move from his corner but stops mumbling. There is a beat of silence, then he suddenly screams "SAKHMET, BEGONE!".
Cecilia looks at you. Sakhment is, if you recall from your readings, the Goddess of the Green Moon, wicked concubine of Ptra, the Sun. Well, if you're playing divinities…
"Servant!" you shout. "Dare you speak to your betters with that tone!"
Her-Ben screeches, a noise not unlike the death rattle of a chicken, and curls into a ball.
"Forgive me" he says. "Forgive me, my Lord."
"Yes", you say, and you rack your head – "It is I, Lord, um – Usirian"
Her-Ben laughs with a crazed joy.
"It is over! Am I admitted to the Halls of Judgement?"
"Yes?"
"Gods be Blessed!" he says and turns around.
You and Cecilia freeze.
"You are more beautiful and glorious than I imagined!" Her-Ben says. His missing left eye leaves a gaping void as he stares at you adoringly, and you recoil slightly as a scent worse than the grave issues from his rotten mouth as he moves to kiss your feet.
"My thanks, my honorable Servant" you say, stepping delicately backwards. "This is my, er…" and you gesture to Cecilia. "His assistant!" she cries.
Her-Ben stares at you both. "It was not mentioned in the scriptures Usirian had an aide."
There is a pause.
"It is a – mere – innovation" you say. "The glut of souls, you see, has been so great, we have uplifted a lesser spirit called, er – Glycon!"
Her-Ben immediately bows. "The sins of the Great Necromancer no know bounds! They even harry the very Underworld!" he cries.
"It is time then" says Cecilia, her voice dropping a theatrical octave. "For your judgement."
"Yes" you say. "You must answer our questions three."
"Of course, my Lord" says Her-Ben. "The three Riddles of the Gate. My answers are already prepared. The golden scarab crosses the desert plain. The blessings of the Great Father were the clear waters, the desert heat-"
You blanch. "Er – the questions have changed."
Her-Ben stops. "Changed?"
"Security breach." Cecilia helpfully offers. "Nagash."
A pause, again.
"WHAT EVILS CAN HE NOT COMMIT!" shouts Her-Ben. "I await your new queries."
"Right" you say. "Question the first – how does a Ushabti function?"
"Ah a holy mystery!" says Her-Ben "I am glad to be first-born. If I were not a Liche Priest, how could I pass through?"
"The questions are per profession now" adds Cecilia, unhelpfully.
Another excruciating silence.
"How wise, Lord Glycon" says Her-Ben.
Another pause. You cough.
"Oh yes! The question!" Her-Ben says. "By the Great Pact of our forefathers! For our faith, ye gods said you would come to our aid whenever we might wish – and so you taught us the incantations that might bring divinity into the world. It is but a scrap of that to make a construct. Any man with sufficient connection to the divine might do so by speaking those sacred words."
"And you would say" you inquire "that the actual God inhabits the statue to make it move?"
"Why you would know, Lord Usirian – why, half of Nehekara summons you regularly."
"For the sake of Glycon, who is unschooled in such matters?"
"Of course, of course. It is a binding of the divine into gross matter. Hence why we cannot have so many active at once. You are Gods, of course – but we would not want to take overmuch your attentions."
A binding. Like demonology. Separation of a piece of the Aethyr into this world – which would make it vulnerable. Especially when it was transiting from one place to another. Very, very vulnerable. You think of guillotines, and a hungry maw, and a tall tower.
"How does the divinity transferred?" you ask.
"Another technical question!" says Her-Ben. "I suppose the afterlife needs competent professionals as much as anywhere else!"
Nobody laughs. You cough again.
"Forgive me, my Lord – er – constructs, yes – through three sacred words. Th first opens a channel in the soul of the summoner. The scale of the divine flow is per their connection to the God of their choice. Once the channel is opened, the middle part of the ritual gives the target – the Ushabti or whatever other construct. The end – Omega - shuts it off when sufficient power has conducted through. It will remain there until one allows it to return with the contra-incantation, or the construct is destroyed."
"What if someone fails to say the last word?"
Her-Ben scratches his chin. A full flap of skin peels off, as his nail starts to draw blood.
"That was most forbidden, my Lord – the more divinity conducted, the harsher to the summoner's spirit. If one could survive it – one would suppose they could draw from the God infinitely."
Or, you supposed, if the God had a limit too – until the whole of the divinity was dragged out and trapped in some useful vessel. Why did the Princeps want priests? You understood now. If S-Nefer-Ka had the incantation – and he did, from what Rosamunde saw – and could maintain their soul's stability – and you think of Floridus, and his weird daemonic experimenting with your former Brothers – you could capture a God through their faithful followers. And – thinking of the crashing, horrible monster at the centre of your City – a trapped beast was good to eat.
You shake your head. There was still a possibility this wasn't it – the essence of the Princeps' plan.
"Does the incantation apply only to the Nehekaran Gods?"
Her-Ben cocks his head, and as he does, a black tooth falls out of his swollen gums with a SPLAT to the floor. "You mean yourselves? Of course. If it can bind your glories, all the lesser ones – why, even the Orks have managed it, with their awful rough idols."
Your stomach drops.
"Do you know the incantation?"
Her-Ben stares at you. "That is a fifth question."
A pause.
"You are not Lord Usirian."
He rises, slowly, like an unfurling cobra.
You and Cecilia slowly back away.
"DECIEVER! DECIEVER! DECIEVER!" he screams, as he leaps at you, and you see the metal door of the cell dent heavy as you smash it shut into his face.
He screams, as he lies on the floor, gnashing his teeth, tearing his rags and skin and hair.
"DOOMED!" he says. "WE ARE DOOMED!"
And you are not inclined to disagree.
RISKY ACTION UNLOCKED: Search for the Incantation of the Ushabti
FLIP:
Petrification (Heads – Success).
You and Pelops set up a ritual circle under the watchful eye of Zaki. At its centre is the petrified form of a Son – you've been told his name is Drek. Unlike most of his brethren, there are few jewels embedded in his body. There is just the red beryl of the rune of Skavor at his nape – otherwise, the fellow could be one of his mountain cousins, if not for the fact that he was made of marbled granite, his face, downturned in sorrow, forever dappled in veins of black and white. His beard is short, too.
A quick, bad life. And that will all it will ever be for Drek.
Unless you have anything to say about it.
You have a theory, from what Fafnir said – about how Skavor remained within himself, barred from the Underearth. Dying is a sort of sleep, and in sleep, everyone dreams.
Pelops lights the many braziers of incense, and soon the scents of frankincense, myrrh and sandalwood fill the air.
You sit cross-legged, facing the statue directly, eye to eye, less than a foot apart. Around you are twenty-one concentric chalk circles made of tiny copies of verses from the
Book of Doors.
Slowly, Pelops lowers each and every one of the lights. Zaki stands, unmoving, as the darkness descends. There is perfect blackness, and perfect silence, in this room beneath the Roost.
…
…
…
You see movement.
Your eyes adjust – but they cannot, because there is no light, not even a little to adjust to – but they do, nevertheless.
In a grey stone room, like the one you were in, but you know you are not anymore, Drek's head slowly rises, jerky, like a trapdoor with a rusty hinge. His whole body trembles – it is still stone – but his fists clench and then unclench, and his mouth moves, and there is a noise like two grindstones meeting.
From the dark, a great shape emerges above you – a wall a thousand miles tall, made of shining metal plates like armour for the world. On every one is emblazoned a glowing rune, and engraved in every sheet are lines and lines of khazalid – names and names and names and names. A dwarf stands at its height, proud. He is gauntleted and girded – you cannot see his face. But his essence pours out – divinity. Not like the ones you know; not the cool calm of Morr or the bright inspiration of Myrmidia. This is not a God of fleeting emotion and faltering faith. This is a god of stone; of certainty; of the Dwarfs.
The figure stands far above, untouchable.
But you've almost forgotten about Drek. He has moved – his stone eyes stare at you blindly. A frozen arm reaches towards you, as if to throttle you. And he speaks but one word – "SIN".
There is an earthquake. The God on the Wall stumbles, the Runes flicker. From the distance, there is a great roar – to shake the heavens and the earth, to make the sun and moon fall. You've heard it once – when you saw Tyleus slay the Beast. You see the God raise his hands, and the earth itself rises, in spikes and mounds and towers to fight. But then, in a blast of anti-light, one great dolorous strike falls.
There is an explosion of dust and rubble, and by the time you rise, the wall is gone.
It is in ruins, and within those, the names. Broken memories litter the earth. All that is standing is a little dome of stone, which falls like water to reveal the God, his metal wrought, his pride gone. He is half-stone now, his is bloodied and bleeding – but he is alive.
But he is alone.
Drek speaks again, gravel down a cliffside: "JUDGEMENT".
To your left, a pillar of blue flame, absolute fury radiating off it. To the right, a pillar of orange flame, bitter and cruel.
The God rises, and turns to the right, and cringes away as the shadows of bulls gore him, for he is soft, and he regrets.
He turns to the left, only to be burnt and burnt again for he survived, and others did not.
So, he runs forward, towards you, and as he does he runs into Drek, merging with his form, ghost over statue, and together, they scream: "FAILURE".
And you feel suddenly your limbs lock up, and your eyes freeze and you're just staring at them, and you can't move and but you can think and you are guilty but you can't move and you hate yourself and you can't move and you're sorry and you can't move and you want to die but you can't move and you're stuck and you're dammed and you can feel and you are ashamed but you cannot move, you cannot move, you cannot move.
And you stay like that, for three hundred years.
And you know what it is, to be a Son of Skavor.
…
Suddenly, you can move.
You're standing in a soft garden, beneath a familiar tree, and a failure figure in a cowl stands next to a familiar gate.
The black void of the sky is above, speckled with countless stars.
"Would you welcome them?" you ask.
A nod.
"Would they accept it?"
A shake.
"Can they be saved?"
A smile.
And from the gate, a flash of orange.
…
You are back with Drek in the endless grey, and the God slumps defeated between you. He is nearly all stone now. He is sobbing, alone on the earth.
Above you, a tower, comes looming. Taller than the wall, at its height, it burns with the neon green of warpstone.
Corpses tumble from it, as a thousand million rats, attempt to climb, and scratch and gnaw and kill each other, climbing to the top.
And from inside it, something roars – deeper and more awful than the Great Beast.
An evil not from the untamed outside but made from within.
A Sin worse than all others.
A Judgement of your corruption.
A Failure of everything ever built.
The God is shaking below you. He cannot move.
You offer a hand. He trembles more – and you feel the waves of despair.
The Tower is boiling now, rat corpses falling like rain. Above, a grey hooded stranger duels the Princeps and the Lady Myrmidia, and with each strike of their swords reality itself cracks and Something bangs at the door of all.
"GET UP!" you shout at Skavor.
He does not.
"SAVE US!"
He does not.
"SAVE YOURSELF!"
He does not.
You pull out your dagger from your pocket. Here, it morphs into a single, terrible double-headed axe of dark steel, with two ancient runes.
"DIE WELL!" you say and thrust the weapon in Skavor's hand.
And he looks up, finally, finally, at the Tower.
"Another chance?" he asks.
And you grin.
"Rewrite your end."
And he charges, with you, into the apocalypse.
…
You wake up.
As you start, Pelops moves to light a candle.
Zaki lets out a surprised snort, as the room is made visible.
Drek's statue has moved. He's not looking down – he's facing you – out, against the world.
Where there was but perfect stone, there is a now a crack, like a tear-track, running down an eye.
An ancient rite unfurls in your mind, one first performed in the furthest North, by a son and his father at the beginning of the world.
You know what you can offer.
Absolution.
VENTURE UNLOCKED: Offer the Grand Rite of Slaying
AN: Sorry for the delay, RL stuff. No vote to get things on a steadier pace. Please enjoy!
