Open Road II
[X][Axe] No
[X][Banshee] Yes
[X][Blood] No
[X] about Olm diabolism.
[X] about Banshees and spirit magic.
[X] Stay with Geln
For a keeper of knowledge, Kirmona seems almost worryingly pleased while bargaining. Their retinue once more falls silent, as the greater Olm eagerly advances and refutes- clarifying, proposing, denying and explaining and prompting you to give and say and do just a little more. Amongst their fellow Olms, it's easy to imagine that their persistent energy and clever stratagems would be strikingly charismatic- even to yourself, pragmatic proposals of mutual gain sound increasingly attractive as the minutes tick by.
You are neither Olm nor spirit, though, to love a clever a bargain. You are just a man, and neither passionate schemes or cunning contract hold much appeal when you frankly…
…don't trust them that much.
All the clever bargains in the world will not help when you agree to none of them- none but one.
'I see.', Kiromana at last concedes, 'leaning' back into their lower bulk. After what must have been near a dozen minutes of back-and-forth, it's only you two still at the table. The sword-Olm had silently descended into parts unknown with a gesture from their master, and the mage was slowly cleaning the filth tracked across the floor, the soft gestures and the vague distressed murmurs providing a strange backdrop to your uneventful haggling.
'You're not disappointed?'
Some moments, it's not too difficult to read Kiromana's thoughts- easier than they would like, you'd hazard, as if they're not quite used to face-to-face negotiation. At others, however they becomes nearly statue like, pupil-less eyes and angular expression betraying little and less. For someone who's just been largely rebuffed, they don't seem.. unsatisfied, if not overly pleased.
'I had hoped for more', they admit, 'but only hoped. We had heard of your… ghost-smiths, and not a single source failed to mention how intractable you could be. It would be folly to assume to you would exceed the trend. Do you drink?'
'Is it good?', you riposte their sudden segue, grateful you don't have to pretend you understood them.
'Rice wine, from Antares and Ixcala.', they assure you, terribly confident.
Almost as if cued, the sword-Olm returns, two large cups in hand. Practiced, they hand one to both of you, but don't seem to know what to do when you instead stand up.
Silently surprsied, they blink upwards as you peer down at the drinks in hand. One of the cups is water, and it isn't yours.
You lean over and take Kiromana's cup, and drain half in a single draught. The warrior stares, somewhere between apprehensive and tensed, as the Witness.. laughs- short and sharp but surprisingly sincere, for someone wearing their schemes upon their sleeves.
'How often does that work?'
'More often than you'd think! Ixcalan drink is good, or so I've been told.. I don't indulge. It's not more poisoned than it already is, though; drink what you want. It's all for guests, anyways.'
You shrug, sitting and taking a sip while they collect themselves. It's been chilled, and strangely.. plant like. Unbidden, the strange fruits in Johannes' kitchen come to mind, as if someone had taken them and… 'riced' them, you suppose, into a drink. It goes down shockingly warm, the initial taste giving way to the burn of strong drink in the back of your throat.
'….it's good.', you admit.
It was excellent, in fact. You were never one for drinking, only ever doing so to fit in- but your distant memories don't compare to the cup in your hand, in taste or strength. How did they even…
You quietly put it down, before you convince yourself to take another sip of one of the strongest drinks you've had in your life.
Opposite you, Kiromana sips on their water, watching you curiously.
'Not a drinker either?'
'Not particulalry. That was excellent, though.. and very strong. Stronger than we serve, normally… do you know how it was made?'
They shrug silently, before quickly whispering something to their aide, too low and quick and foreign to parse. Once more settled into a gentle calm, they obediently bow, and disappear once more.
'It'll take some time for your new companion to be awoken.', they explain. Until then.. any pressing business?'
'I only have some here, at least until much later. May I ask some things on my mind, while I'm wth you?'
'If we've the time, I don't see why not.'
'What is a Banshee?'
"Ah... good question!
It's a spirit that mimics a dead mortal. They take an appearance similar to the corpse, and haunt the place they died in- having spawned from the circumstances of their passing. It's a poor mimicry, thankfully- they're inconsistent, and insane.
If they had more control.. when aggravated, and that's quite often, they can be very dangerous. They prefer to kill with their spells from afar, but get too close and their touch could be fatal too. They know their haunt extremely well, and don't.. quite obey mortal laws of movement, as spirits are wont to do. You won't have to truly kill it, though.', they assure you. You're.. not sure how you'd kill such a creature, however.
'You just have to stun it, and the orb will do everything else. Then, just bring it back to me- I'll wait for you in Ixcala. Your axe will be more than good enough.. it's a beautiful piece.', they sigh wistfully.
'…alright… so why me?'
'Did you not just slay a sorcerer, and a mighty daemon? After that, a mimicry of a mage should be within your means.'
'Daemons have a physical form- so why aren't you contracting a Lands-warden for something spiritual? And why do you want this 'Banshee'?'
They pause now, peering at you contemplatively- weighing in their mind what they can reveal, what they should hold back, in what order to feed it to you so you'll walk the path they so desire.
'I hear you've been associating with the Solars.'
There is not half the disdain Aurora spoke of them with, but it is not absent either. Their slight smile thins, then drops entirely- fading into a gentle sigh, as if personally put out by a sudden revelation.
'The Solars.. are truly knowledgeable in Daemon-lore, but their biases blind them. As much as one can understand why.. isn't it a shame that they are the inheritors of some of the greatest diabolists to have ever lived, yet persist in such an error?'
'I don't understand half of that.'
'…..Daemons are a sub-type of spirit. All spirits can manifest physical forms, if they wish, and often do to act quickly in our world; but even if they do not, they're not invincible to your means; that is not unique to daemons. The Solars.. zealously despise them, and have willingly destroyed their knowledge on how to utilise them. Even when you understand.. such a waste.'
He sighs pensively once more, the destruction of knowledge a personal grievance as he forlornly peers over your head.
'They are honest, at least. Destructive, regressive.. but honest. What the Descendents see in them, I will never understand.'
You nod silently.. the grievance flies over your head, but the distant vendetta in his tone is clear to you.
'Regardless- Daemons are dangerous, it is true, more dangerous than most spirits if left unchecked. Yet still, it is unreliable, but not impossible, to direct them. One of your own, greatest surface empires made use of them!'
'I'm not from here.', you remind them, and they back-step somewhat from their passionate education.
'Ah.. yes, sorry. The Illyrian Hegemony has long been destroyed by celestial catastrophe, and their inheritors are both quite similar, and very different.'
Despite his assurances.. your worries remained undimmed. The skirmish in the tunnels, Livia's silent screams, the slaughter in the streets.. you have only found these Daemons on this continent alone, but two for two now they seemed all too mindfully malicious. A daemon-summoner claims they are.. safe, somewhat, but then wouldn't a slaver claim that the shackle was just and right?
They pause, suddenly withdrawn and quiet, and when they start again their voice has dropped in timbre, superstitiously wary.
'Just as the some are inspired by the miracles of the surface world, there is another.. society, inspired in their craft by old Illyria. Daemons are a horrific tool, but they can be strong- and strength can be used.'
You nod, still politely. This knowledge feels momentous, yet you don't know enough about this alien world for it to truly resonate. The Olms claim that they can safely wield these Daemons, and you have no reason to doubt their prosperity.. even so, though, would that make it right, to seize that gruesome, warping chance for power over the bodies of their mutilated victims?
'I only tell you this so you have all you know to draw your own conclusions about the nature of this world, a counterbalance to the comforting lies your new allies espouse. Of course, daemons are unpopular under-the-sun, so if you speak too freely of what I tell you…'
They finish with a dark inflection, and you don't need to be a schemer to realise their suggestion.
'..., if you can defeat a mage of some strength, a Banshee should be within your means. Still, I suggest you make sure to learn its habits and weaknesses first. As for why we want it- to study, of course!
Banshees, and such similar spirits, aren't common in the underground, and as spirit-users ourselves, we're curious in what they can do. If you understood that hallowed lore, I'm sure you can grasp why-'
The warrior reappears, and just behind is a floating white orb, as large as your fist- not all that large, to hold a mimic of a corpse. It glows a soft white, like a pearl reflecting the gentle light, and when it draws close it swoops towards you with alarming swiftness. You draw your sword in instinct, but it stops right in front of you- before orbiting, to hover just above and behind.
You lean back to look at it, and for a moment it stays still, before floating to adjust to your head movements.
'Do you like it?', asks Kiromana- once more enigmatically curious.
'I don't know', you admit. 'Can it glow brighter?'
On command, the orb gleams near twice as hard. Although still far from blinding, you've fought- and killed- in worse lighting.
Feeling somewhat obliged to the strange golem, you nod gratefully.
'I'm afraid, until you find your quarry, that's all it can do- and when you do, it will act on its own. Still, if you like it..'
They gently 'stand' from the table, water in hand, and so you stand as well and firmly shake their hand. They have a stronger grip than you'd have guessed, and much colder than it looks- as if they have no blood.
'I'll see you in Ixcala then, spirit in hand. May I ask a final favour, before I march to war?'
'…hm?'
You turn and gesture to the mage, who is mournfully cleaning Korra- insofar as she agrees to stand still, anyways.
'Can that be cast on people as well?'
———————————————-
The stars were beautiful.
Foreigners didn't seem to think much of it. You suppose if you could see the stars for every night of your life, the wonder would eventually fade.. somehow, you think they're worse off for it.
In Haven, the mists were nearly ever present. Before travelling beyond your native waters, you had only seen the night sky thrice in your life, unconcealed by the comforting fog, and every time it was an event that drew thousands of Islefolk onto the streets to marvel at the gleaming mosaic so far above.
As painful the glare of the midday of the sun can be, it's easy to forget that when you get to star-gaze every night. Isn't a bit of suffering worth the stellar sights?
Yet as much as you prefer the gleaming constellations, they aren't very.. useful.
The sun rises in the East, and sets in the West. Every hour of the day, it reveals roughly the time- from morning to midday to night. With some practice, looking up is all one needs to guess the time, to see how many hours of light they have left to work. It's a marvellous convenience, when before you had needed to measure faint shadows and the dripping of the clock, but without it how can you guess the hour of the night?
…..you suppose that's why foreigners build clocks, even despite their access to scouring sun.
You hurry through dark Nocivan streets, Korra freshly cleaned and drawing far stranger looks. The night-militia have taken to the streets, sparse patrols carry clubs and short-blades that strangely contrasts their insistence that their city's been disarmed, but they don't seem to have curfew in this land. You see fellow night-goers far more often than those vigilant patrols, nervously confident in their safety within the city walls, but as you turn away from the never-sleeping docks, one by one they disappear.
As you approach the sanctum you left this morning, normal foot traffic becomes rarer and rarer, and increasingly frightened in their bearings. Travellers avoid making eye contact as they dart from corner to corner, almost desperate to avoid confrontation on their way home. It's a nonsensical contrast with the fact that you see more night patrols, not less- roughly armoured men who don't seem native to these run-down districts, consulting maps by the lantern light as they sluggishly patrol. Despite their greater number, these seem nearly ready to jump out of their own skins when you suddenly loom from the dark, visibly relieved when you simply nod and pass.
For their their peace of mind, you refrain from mentioning that if they hadn't nearly blinded themselves with their paranoid lantern light, they'd realise that they were being watched.
Slight sounds and faint outlines appear now and then in the corner of your eyes, sneaks skulking in alley-shadows and narrow crevices, and you're not so brash to doubt that there are far more than the handful you see. They disappear, and you do not think you're being watched, but you start to walk faster nonetheless,
Why they're hiding in the dark, at night, keeping such vigilant watch of strangers on their streets is their own business, but you can't shake the wariness that it is not an altruistic one.
Thankfully, no one overtly bothers you. As you approach the Sanctum, the patrols sharply stop entirely, and soon so do the eyes in the dark (you hope). At night, it proves thankfully easy to find- a golden flame burns with near tangible power to your eyes, chasing off shadows like a vigilant warden- yet it seems starkly, near suspiciously empty.
Last night, over twenty people had huddled onto the levelled plot. Now, you count perhaps five- two of them human guardians armed with staves and daggers, most asleep. When they hear your footfall, they swiftly hide them away, and seem surprised to see your face once more, now alone.
'Your business, stranger?'
'I was told that tomorrow, some Solars would leave the city. I decided to go with them, but.. where are they?'
They glance at each other, clearly wary of your motives, but eventually give you directions- a convoy is assembling in the Sprawl. The Solars wish to leave Nociva before dawn, as so to not even be in sight of the city when the sun rises, and would be preparing to leave right now!
It's a strange choice, but it's convenient for you. You leave the emptied Sanctum behind and, consulting your map, head towards the Sprawl.
————————
When you leave the checkpoint that leads to the Sprawl, the guards barely give you a glance- apparently used to heavily armed strangers striding back and forth. They're exhausted, and so you give them your peace bond and swiftly leave before they examine it more closely.
Compared to main Nociva, the Sprawl is... lesser. Lesser built and less densely built, in the dark its chaotic spread makes it hard to travel. You hear this is the place where Nociva's mercenaries congregate, unable to enter the walls without impractical restriction, yet it seems strangely silent.
There is not a single patrol in the Sprawl. Instead, guards carefully huddle in well lit watchtowers, better armed than their counterparts within the walls. As safe and intimidating you have no doubt it looks, you're not sure how they see into the dark urban mess below.
It's quiet, nearly too quiet for a place so weakly patrolled, as if even the armoured mercenaries were fearful of the dark. Deciding not to test your luck, you stick to the largest, most visible streets, and hurry towards the edges.
Thankfully, the Solars are not trying to hide.
On the edges of the Sprawl, facing outwards from the city, the Solars are awake at this strange hour of the night. Dozens of immigrants, priests and a handful of warriors swarm about several carts, each drawn by enromously broad backed quadrupedal beasts, bedecked with hooves and horns.
Despite their intimidating size, they seem docile as their human handlers goad them onto the street. Humans, some tieflings, a bare handful of halflings.. none of them seem quite well off, but all seem almost joyous with anticipation. They chatter softly as they pile two of their carts with food and drink, repair supplies and spare clothes and their meagre possessions- ready to abandon what they had for life in a faraway land.
'?- Geln!'
A familiar young voice flags you down from your quiet watch. Anthony waves at you enthusiastically, drawing the attention of the travellers around him. Some recognise you, whispering explanations to those who clearly don't, as you stride towards the apprentice priest.
'Are you alright?'
You're not sure what to say to that. Seeing your confusion, they almost stutter in their haste to explain.
'Well, it's just- a runner came by and explained Aurora had been hurt, and today there was all sorts of rumours about daemons', he whispers at the end, as if merely saying that too loudly would draw their eye. 'I know you didn't leave together, but did you-'
'Anthony?'
Blessed Johannes appears from behind one of the filled carts, walking brisker with a cane, and so you nod a greeting to him when he sees you.
'Ah- Geln! You know each other?'
'We do!'
'I've decided to leave, and I'd like to come with you', you explain honestly, before too many awkward questions come to light. 'I know it's unexpected, and I've neither coin nor food or even the right faith to pay my way- but I'm willing to help where I can, and Anthony suggested you could use an extra blade.'
'Did he now?'
The younger man balks somewhat as his master turns a critical eye towards him.
'Nothing was set in stone', you quickly pull him back from the fire you cast him into. 'He just suggested you wouldn't mind working with me further. Given I have to leave Nociva today anyways..'
The elder priest nods quietly, closing his eyes to consider- before coming to a decision.
'We're about to leave in twenty minutes, but we have enough spare space that you can ride- and we could use another blade, especially a skilful one. Make yourself useful until then, and you will ride the cart at the end of chain. More details, we'll talk of under the rising sun. Is that good?'
'Thank you.'
He smiles gently, pleased that you are pleased, and nods to the both of you- but just before he goes, Anthony dredges up a final topic.
'What about Aurora, though?'
'The fate of Sin Eaters is in heaven's hands alone. If she does not appear, then it was not to be. Now, quickly!'
————————————-
Preparations finish faster than hoped for, and you don't even have time to greet new or familiar faces- surprised Suarez, scholarly Sophia, a familiar child and his frightened parents and a half dozen more who seem to have simply assumed you, too, are a Solar, before you're almost hustled onto the bulky carts. Despite the chaos all around, the 'oxen' seem placidly accepting that they've been chained and bound to toil for far smaller creatures. When their drivers goad them, they obediently pull their loads, two by two, onto the stone road.
It's not a fast pace- slower than you could march, you think, if still likely faster than the pace of the sickly or the youngest in your new convoy- but you are not far from the end of the Sprawl. Korra easily lopes along and aside, keeping a fair distance from several horse-riders doing the same, but even if they are not swift, the oxen march nonetheless. In only minutes, you reach the unguarded edge, half built and strangely slanted.
In another, the final pair of carts crosses that invisible boundary, and Nociva is behind you.
You turn away from your curious co-passengers to look back at largest city you've ever known. Despite all of its wondrous sites..
..you do not think you will miss it much.
——————————
Nociva is enormous. Built around a hill and a river, its population is dozens and dozens of thousands strong, an entire culture pressed inside its man made cliffs, complete with rites and traditions, flaws and vendettas. Its walls are as impressive to match- thick stone soaring from the ground like a titan's sandcastle.
From so far, it still looks.. small. Another distant hill, its inhabitants too small to even see, obscured by space and the dark alike. Soon, you lose sight of it altogether, the oxen stubbornly forging ahead on roads that grow rougher and rougher with every step they take.
At some point you do not recall, Korra leaps onto the cart, tired of loping along. Almost as large as some of the Solars, she drapes herself across your lap and falls asleep.
Soon, so do the other passengers.
Soon, so do you.
——————————-
You wake up as the only person in the cart.
Korra remains as limp deadweight on her lap, rising and falling as she breathes, but every other passenger is gone. Blearily, you glance about to see the sun is just barely rising. With Nociva far out of sight, the convoy had stopped, the oxen resting, the supplies watched by a skeletal crew.
Turning left, you see where everyone else had gone.
Backlit by the rising sun, Johannes holds a sermon. Dozens have obediently settled to listen, the old and young, human amd tiefling and hobbits alike- each carrying near all their belongings on their backs, throwing away whatever lives they had for fervent hope. Dawn Pact wanderers mix with ragged Nocivans, travellers from so absurdly far side by side with urbanites who may have never left their native city before, but for all their differences in soul and flesh, age and skills and origin or calling, for just a moment they all share in a single dream.
In front of them, Johannes is backdropped by the rising sun. Despite the radiant glare, you can make out every detail of his face and humble face. The sunlight nearly cloaks him, like the embrace of once distant family, and even from so far away you can feel in your eyes and blood and bones the so-familiar power in his soul…
He is saying something. A message of hope, or peace, or virtue or endurance; his lips move, his hands gesture broadly as his eyes impossibly catch the light behind him, and you do not hear a word as you're possessed with the urge to flee.
You stand suddenly, Korra unceremoniously collapsing to the floor. Clinically, some small part notes your breath comes short, your axe in hand when you do not remember retrieving it, but it is only a small part, one found in hindsight…
The most of you only wants to turn away, to escape that striking remainder that you will never again return to Haven, the home of your people, the land of your faith. The sermon, that dream they share is not for you… it cannot be; it never will be.
….shamefully, you flee that reminder that, by your own actions, you will forever be alone.
——————-
Frenzied and panicked, Geln retreats, thankfully mostly unobserved. When he feels better, what does he resolve to do?
[] You not some animal, ruled by fear and rage, or a spirit who covets yet flees divinity. The Solars pray and preach every dawn and dusk, and although Geln does not join them, he forces himself to watch, painful as it is to confront himself with everything he has lost.
[]… although he never puts the reasoning of why to words, Geln silently avoids that a familiar yet alienating rite. As friendly as they are, the Solars.. are not you.
One day, you.. will need to confront it all. Yet.. you just don't have it in you yet.
(Either way, your fellow travellers will notice your behaviour.)
———————————————
In many ways, the Solars are closer to the Islefolk than the Thalassic Leagues and the Lodges.
They are still foreigners.
This update was written in pieces. I've been busy with a full time renovation job recently, but thankfully it is finished. Hopefully, the quality had not suffered for it.
You may have noticed, but Solarism primarily converts from a certain category of people. So far north in Nociva, however, they are a minuscule minority catapulted to outsized fame by recent events.
It says 10/12 for that new language. Unfortunately, I just don't have it in me to write from that perspective who can't speak properly; although a lot of people around Geln still use words he doesn't yet understand, just.. kind of assume he can currently speak League Tongue well enough, and can almost read at a basic level.
Geln is both smart and witty, but thankfully not full of himself. (Only a little full of himself). If he wants to be, he's pretty easy to get along with.
To Ixcala!
You have at least two days, probably three, to vote.
Questions always welcome.
[X][Banshee] Yes
[X][Blood] No
[X] about Olm diabolism.
[X] about Banshees and spirit magic.
[X] Stay with Geln
For a keeper of knowledge, Kirmona seems almost worryingly pleased while bargaining. Their retinue once more falls silent, as the greater Olm eagerly advances and refutes- clarifying, proposing, denying and explaining and prompting you to give and say and do just a little more. Amongst their fellow Olms, it's easy to imagine that their persistent energy and clever stratagems would be strikingly charismatic- even to yourself, pragmatic proposals of mutual gain sound increasingly attractive as the minutes tick by.
You are neither Olm nor spirit, though, to love a clever a bargain. You are just a man, and neither passionate schemes or cunning contract hold much appeal when you frankly…
…don't trust them that much.
All the clever bargains in the world will not help when you agree to none of them- none but one.
'I see.', Kiromana at last concedes, 'leaning' back into their lower bulk. After what must have been near a dozen minutes of back-and-forth, it's only you two still at the table. The sword-Olm had silently descended into parts unknown with a gesture from their master, and the mage was slowly cleaning the filth tracked across the floor, the soft gestures and the vague distressed murmurs providing a strange backdrop to your uneventful haggling.
'You're not disappointed?'
Some moments, it's not too difficult to read Kiromana's thoughts- easier than they would like, you'd hazard, as if they're not quite used to face-to-face negotiation. At others, however they becomes nearly statue like, pupil-less eyes and angular expression betraying little and less. For someone who's just been largely rebuffed, they don't seem.. unsatisfied, if not overly pleased.
'I had hoped for more', they admit, 'but only hoped. We had heard of your… ghost-smiths, and not a single source failed to mention how intractable you could be. It would be folly to assume to you would exceed the trend. Do you drink?'
'Is it good?', you riposte their sudden segue, grateful you don't have to pretend you understood them.
'Rice wine, from Antares and Ixcala.', they assure you, terribly confident.
Almost as if cued, the sword-Olm returns, two large cups in hand. Practiced, they hand one to both of you, but don't seem to know what to do when you instead stand up.
Silently surprsied, they blink upwards as you peer down at the drinks in hand. One of the cups is water, and it isn't yours.
You lean over and take Kiromana's cup, and drain half in a single draught. The warrior stares, somewhere between apprehensive and tensed, as the Witness.. laughs- short and sharp but surprisingly sincere, for someone wearing their schemes upon their sleeves.
'How often does that work?'
'More often than you'd think! Ixcalan drink is good, or so I've been told.. I don't indulge. It's not more poisoned than it already is, though; drink what you want. It's all for guests, anyways.'
You shrug, sitting and taking a sip while they collect themselves. It's been chilled, and strangely.. plant like. Unbidden, the strange fruits in Johannes' kitchen come to mind, as if someone had taken them and… 'riced' them, you suppose, into a drink. It goes down shockingly warm, the initial taste giving way to the burn of strong drink in the back of your throat.
'….it's good.', you admit.
It was excellent, in fact. You were never one for drinking, only ever doing so to fit in- but your distant memories don't compare to the cup in your hand, in taste or strength. How did they even…
You quietly put it down, before you convince yourself to take another sip of one of the strongest drinks you've had in your life.
Opposite you, Kiromana sips on their water, watching you curiously.
'Not a drinker either?'
'Not particulalry. That was excellent, though.. and very strong. Stronger than we serve, normally… do you know how it was made?'
They shrug silently, before quickly whispering something to their aide, too low and quick and foreign to parse. Once more settled into a gentle calm, they obediently bow, and disappear once more.
'It'll take some time for your new companion to be awoken.', they explain. Until then.. any pressing business?'
'I only have some here, at least until much later. May I ask some things on my mind, while I'm wth you?'
'If we've the time, I don't see why not.'
'What is a Banshee?'
"Ah... good question!
It's a spirit that mimics a dead mortal. They take an appearance similar to the corpse, and haunt the place they died in- having spawned from the circumstances of their passing. It's a poor mimicry, thankfully- they're inconsistent, and insane.
If they had more control.. when aggravated, and that's quite often, they can be very dangerous. They prefer to kill with their spells from afar, but get too close and their touch could be fatal too. They know their haunt extremely well, and don't.. quite obey mortal laws of movement, as spirits are wont to do. You won't have to truly kill it, though.', they assure you. You're.. not sure how you'd kill such a creature, however.
'You just have to stun it, and the orb will do everything else. Then, just bring it back to me- I'll wait for you in Ixcala. Your axe will be more than good enough.. it's a beautiful piece.', they sigh wistfully.
'…alright… so why me?'
'Did you not just slay a sorcerer, and a mighty daemon? After that, a mimicry of a mage should be within your means.'
'Daemons have a physical form- so why aren't you contracting a Lands-warden for something spiritual? And why do you want this 'Banshee'?'
They pause now, peering at you contemplatively- weighing in their mind what they can reveal, what they should hold back, in what order to feed it to you so you'll walk the path they so desire.
'I hear you've been associating with the Solars.'
There is not half the disdain Aurora spoke of them with, but it is not absent either. Their slight smile thins, then drops entirely- fading into a gentle sigh, as if personally put out by a sudden revelation.
'The Solars.. are truly knowledgeable in Daemon-lore, but their biases blind them. As much as one can understand why.. isn't it a shame that they are the inheritors of some of the greatest diabolists to have ever lived, yet persist in such an error?'
'I don't understand half of that.'
'…..Daemons are a sub-type of spirit. All spirits can manifest physical forms, if they wish, and often do to act quickly in our world; but even if they do not, they're not invincible to your means; that is not unique to daemons. The Solars.. zealously despise them, and have willingly destroyed their knowledge on how to utilise them. Even when you understand.. such a waste.'
He sighs pensively once more, the destruction of knowledge a personal grievance as he forlornly peers over your head.
'They are honest, at least. Destructive, regressive.. but honest. What the Descendents see in them, I will never understand.'
You nod silently.. the grievance flies over your head, but the distant vendetta in his tone is clear to you.
'Regardless- Daemons are dangerous, it is true, more dangerous than most spirits if left unchecked. Yet still, it is unreliable, but not impossible, to direct them. One of your own, greatest surface empires made use of them!'
'I'm not from here.', you remind them, and they back-step somewhat from their passionate education.
'Ah.. yes, sorry. The Illyrian Hegemony has long been destroyed by celestial catastrophe, and their inheritors are both quite similar, and very different.'
Despite his assurances.. your worries remained undimmed. The skirmish in the tunnels, Livia's silent screams, the slaughter in the streets.. you have only found these Daemons on this continent alone, but two for two now they seemed all too mindfully malicious. A daemon-summoner claims they are.. safe, somewhat, but then wouldn't a slaver claim that the shackle was just and right?
They pause, suddenly withdrawn and quiet, and when they start again their voice has dropped in timbre, superstitiously wary.
'Just as the some are inspired by the miracles of the surface world, there is another.. society, inspired in their craft by old Illyria. Daemons are a horrific tool, but they can be strong- and strength can be used.'
You nod, still politely. This knowledge feels momentous, yet you don't know enough about this alien world for it to truly resonate. The Olms claim that they can safely wield these Daemons, and you have no reason to doubt their prosperity.. even so, though, would that make it right, to seize that gruesome, warping chance for power over the bodies of their mutilated victims?
'I only tell you this so you have all you know to draw your own conclusions about the nature of this world, a counterbalance to the comforting lies your new allies espouse. Of course, daemons are unpopular under-the-sun, so if you speak too freely of what I tell you…'
They finish with a dark inflection, and you don't need to be a schemer to realise their suggestion.
'..., if you can defeat a mage of some strength, a Banshee should be within your means. Still, I suggest you make sure to learn its habits and weaknesses first. As for why we want it- to study, of course!
Banshees, and such similar spirits, aren't common in the underground, and as spirit-users ourselves, we're curious in what they can do. If you understood that hallowed lore, I'm sure you can grasp why-'
The warrior reappears, and just behind is a floating white orb, as large as your fist- not all that large, to hold a mimic of a corpse. It glows a soft white, like a pearl reflecting the gentle light, and when it draws close it swoops towards you with alarming swiftness. You draw your sword in instinct, but it stops right in front of you- before orbiting, to hover just above and behind.
You lean back to look at it, and for a moment it stays still, before floating to adjust to your head movements.
'Do you like it?', asks Kiromana- once more enigmatically curious.
'I don't know', you admit. 'Can it glow brighter?'
On command, the orb gleams near twice as hard. Although still far from blinding, you've fought- and killed- in worse lighting.
Feeling somewhat obliged to the strange golem, you nod gratefully.
'I'm afraid, until you find your quarry, that's all it can do- and when you do, it will act on its own. Still, if you like it..'
They gently 'stand' from the table, water in hand, and so you stand as well and firmly shake their hand. They have a stronger grip than you'd have guessed, and much colder than it looks- as if they have no blood.
'I'll see you in Ixcala then, spirit in hand. May I ask a final favour, before I march to war?'
'…hm?'
You turn and gesture to the mage, who is mournfully cleaning Korra- insofar as she agrees to stand still, anyways.
'Can that be cast on people as well?'
———————————————-
The stars were beautiful.
Foreigners didn't seem to think much of it. You suppose if you could see the stars for every night of your life, the wonder would eventually fade.. somehow, you think they're worse off for it.
In Haven, the mists were nearly ever present. Before travelling beyond your native waters, you had only seen the night sky thrice in your life, unconcealed by the comforting fog, and every time it was an event that drew thousands of Islefolk onto the streets to marvel at the gleaming mosaic so far above.
As painful the glare of the midday of the sun can be, it's easy to forget that when you get to star-gaze every night. Isn't a bit of suffering worth the stellar sights?
Yet as much as you prefer the gleaming constellations, they aren't very.. useful.
The sun rises in the East, and sets in the West. Every hour of the day, it reveals roughly the time- from morning to midday to night. With some practice, looking up is all one needs to guess the time, to see how many hours of light they have left to work. It's a marvellous convenience, when before you had needed to measure faint shadows and the dripping of the clock, but without it how can you guess the hour of the night?
…..you suppose that's why foreigners build clocks, even despite their access to scouring sun.
You hurry through dark Nocivan streets, Korra freshly cleaned and drawing far stranger looks. The night-militia have taken to the streets, sparse patrols carry clubs and short-blades that strangely contrasts their insistence that their city's been disarmed, but they don't seem to have curfew in this land. You see fellow night-goers far more often than those vigilant patrols, nervously confident in their safety within the city walls, but as you turn away from the never-sleeping docks, one by one they disappear.
As you approach the sanctum you left this morning, normal foot traffic becomes rarer and rarer, and increasingly frightened in their bearings. Travellers avoid making eye contact as they dart from corner to corner, almost desperate to avoid confrontation on their way home. It's a nonsensical contrast with the fact that you see more night patrols, not less- roughly armoured men who don't seem native to these run-down districts, consulting maps by the lantern light as they sluggishly patrol. Despite their greater number, these seem nearly ready to jump out of their own skins when you suddenly loom from the dark, visibly relieved when you simply nod and pass.
For their their peace of mind, you refrain from mentioning that if they hadn't nearly blinded themselves with their paranoid lantern light, they'd realise that they were being watched.
Slight sounds and faint outlines appear now and then in the corner of your eyes, sneaks skulking in alley-shadows and narrow crevices, and you're not so brash to doubt that there are far more than the handful you see. They disappear, and you do not think you're being watched, but you start to walk faster nonetheless,
Why they're hiding in the dark, at night, keeping such vigilant watch of strangers on their streets is their own business, but you can't shake the wariness that it is not an altruistic one.
Thankfully, no one overtly bothers you. As you approach the Sanctum, the patrols sharply stop entirely, and soon so do the eyes in the dark (you hope). At night, it proves thankfully easy to find- a golden flame burns with near tangible power to your eyes, chasing off shadows like a vigilant warden- yet it seems starkly, near suspiciously empty.
Last night, over twenty people had huddled onto the levelled plot. Now, you count perhaps five- two of them human guardians armed with staves and daggers, most asleep. When they hear your footfall, they swiftly hide them away, and seem surprised to see your face once more, now alone.
'Your business, stranger?'
'I was told that tomorrow, some Solars would leave the city. I decided to go with them, but.. where are they?'
They glance at each other, clearly wary of your motives, but eventually give you directions- a convoy is assembling in the Sprawl. The Solars wish to leave Nociva before dawn, as so to not even be in sight of the city when the sun rises, and would be preparing to leave right now!
It's a strange choice, but it's convenient for you. You leave the emptied Sanctum behind and, consulting your map, head towards the Sprawl.
————————
When you leave the checkpoint that leads to the Sprawl, the guards barely give you a glance- apparently used to heavily armed strangers striding back and forth. They're exhausted, and so you give them your peace bond and swiftly leave before they examine it more closely.
Compared to main Nociva, the Sprawl is... lesser. Lesser built and less densely built, in the dark its chaotic spread makes it hard to travel. You hear this is the place where Nociva's mercenaries congregate, unable to enter the walls without impractical restriction, yet it seems strangely silent.
There is not a single patrol in the Sprawl. Instead, guards carefully huddle in well lit watchtowers, better armed than their counterparts within the walls. As safe and intimidating you have no doubt it looks, you're not sure how they see into the dark urban mess below.
It's quiet, nearly too quiet for a place so weakly patrolled, as if even the armoured mercenaries were fearful of the dark. Deciding not to test your luck, you stick to the largest, most visible streets, and hurry towards the edges.
Thankfully, the Solars are not trying to hide.
On the edges of the Sprawl, facing outwards from the city, the Solars are awake at this strange hour of the night. Dozens of immigrants, priests and a handful of warriors swarm about several carts, each drawn by enromously broad backed quadrupedal beasts, bedecked with hooves and horns.
Despite their intimidating size, they seem docile as their human handlers goad them onto the street. Humans, some tieflings, a bare handful of halflings.. none of them seem quite well off, but all seem almost joyous with anticipation. They chatter softly as they pile two of their carts with food and drink, repair supplies and spare clothes and their meagre possessions- ready to abandon what they had for life in a faraway land.
'?- Geln!'
A familiar young voice flags you down from your quiet watch. Anthony waves at you enthusiastically, drawing the attention of the travellers around him. Some recognise you, whispering explanations to those who clearly don't, as you stride towards the apprentice priest.
'Are you alright?'
You're not sure what to say to that. Seeing your confusion, they almost stutter in their haste to explain.
'Well, it's just- a runner came by and explained Aurora had been hurt, and today there was all sorts of rumours about daemons', he whispers at the end, as if merely saying that too loudly would draw their eye. 'I know you didn't leave together, but did you-'
'Anthony?'
Blessed Johannes appears from behind one of the filled carts, walking brisker with a cane, and so you nod a greeting to him when he sees you.
'Ah- Geln! You know each other?'
'We do!'
'I've decided to leave, and I'd like to come with you', you explain honestly, before too many awkward questions come to light. 'I know it's unexpected, and I've neither coin nor food or even the right faith to pay my way- but I'm willing to help where I can, and Anthony suggested you could use an extra blade.'
'Did he now?'
The younger man balks somewhat as his master turns a critical eye towards him.
'Nothing was set in stone', you quickly pull him back from the fire you cast him into. 'He just suggested you wouldn't mind working with me further. Given I have to leave Nociva today anyways..'
The elder priest nods quietly, closing his eyes to consider- before coming to a decision.
'We're about to leave in twenty minutes, but we have enough spare space that you can ride- and we could use another blade, especially a skilful one. Make yourself useful until then, and you will ride the cart at the end of chain. More details, we'll talk of under the rising sun. Is that good?'
'Thank you.'
He smiles gently, pleased that you are pleased, and nods to the both of you- but just before he goes, Anthony dredges up a final topic.
'What about Aurora, though?'
'The fate of Sin Eaters is in heaven's hands alone. If she does not appear, then it was not to be. Now, quickly!'
————————————-
Preparations finish faster than hoped for, and you don't even have time to greet new or familiar faces- surprised Suarez, scholarly Sophia, a familiar child and his frightened parents and a half dozen more who seem to have simply assumed you, too, are a Solar, before you're almost hustled onto the bulky carts. Despite the chaos all around, the 'oxen' seem placidly accepting that they've been chained and bound to toil for far smaller creatures. When their drivers goad them, they obediently pull their loads, two by two, onto the stone road.
It's not a fast pace- slower than you could march, you think, if still likely faster than the pace of the sickly or the youngest in your new convoy- but you are not far from the end of the Sprawl. Korra easily lopes along and aside, keeping a fair distance from several horse-riders doing the same, but even if they are not swift, the oxen march nonetheless. In only minutes, you reach the unguarded edge, half built and strangely slanted.
In another, the final pair of carts crosses that invisible boundary, and Nociva is behind you.
You turn away from your curious co-passengers to look back at largest city you've ever known. Despite all of its wondrous sites..
..you do not think you will miss it much.
——————————
Nociva is enormous. Built around a hill and a river, its population is dozens and dozens of thousands strong, an entire culture pressed inside its man made cliffs, complete with rites and traditions, flaws and vendettas. Its walls are as impressive to match- thick stone soaring from the ground like a titan's sandcastle.
From so far, it still looks.. small. Another distant hill, its inhabitants too small to even see, obscured by space and the dark alike. Soon, you lose sight of it altogether, the oxen stubbornly forging ahead on roads that grow rougher and rougher with every step they take.
At some point you do not recall, Korra leaps onto the cart, tired of loping along. Almost as large as some of the Solars, she drapes herself across your lap and falls asleep.
Soon, so do the other passengers.
Soon, so do you.
——————————-
You wake up as the only person in the cart.
Korra remains as limp deadweight on her lap, rising and falling as she breathes, but every other passenger is gone. Blearily, you glance about to see the sun is just barely rising. With Nociva far out of sight, the convoy had stopped, the oxen resting, the supplies watched by a skeletal crew.
Turning left, you see where everyone else had gone.
Backlit by the rising sun, Johannes holds a sermon. Dozens have obediently settled to listen, the old and young, human amd tiefling and hobbits alike- each carrying near all their belongings on their backs, throwing away whatever lives they had for fervent hope. Dawn Pact wanderers mix with ragged Nocivans, travellers from so absurdly far side by side with urbanites who may have never left their native city before, but for all their differences in soul and flesh, age and skills and origin or calling, for just a moment they all share in a single dream.
In front of them, Johannes is backdropped by the rising sun. Despite the radiant glare, you can make out every detail of his face and humble face. The sunlight nearly cloaks him, like the embrace of once distant family, and even from so far away you can feel in your eyes and blood and bones the so-familiar power in his soul…
He is saying something. A message of hope, or peace, or virtue or endurance; his lips move, his hands gesture broadly as his eyes impossibly catch the light behind him, and you do not hear a word as you're possessed with the urge to flee.
You stand suddenly, Korra unceremoniously collapsing to the floor. Clinically, some small part notes your breath comes short, your axe in hand when you do not remember retrieving it, but it is only a small part, one found in hindsight…
The most of you only wants to turn away, to escape that striking remainder that you will never again return to Haven, the home of your people, the land of your faith. The sermon, that dream they share is not for you… it cannot be; it never will be.
….shamefully, you flee that reminder that, by your own actions, you will forever be alone.
——————-
Frenzied and panicked, Geln retreats, thankfully mostly unobserved. When he feels better, what does he resolve to do?
[] You not some animal, ruled by fear and rage, or a spirit who covets yet flees divinity. The Solars pray and preach every dawn and dusk, and although Geln does not join them, he forces himself to watch, painful as it is to confront himself with everything he has lost.
[]… although he never puts the reasoning of why to words, Geln silently avoids that a familiar yet alienating rite. As friendly as they are, the Solars.. are not you.
One day, you.. will need to confront it all. Yet.. you just don't have it in you yet.
(Either way, your fellow travellers will notice your behaviour.)
———————————————
In many ways, the Solars are closer to the Islefolk than the Thalassic Leagues and the Lodges.
They are still foreigners.
This update was written in pieces. I've been busy with a full time renovation job recently, but thankfully it is finished. Hopefully, the quality had not suffered for it.
You may have noticed, but Solarism primarily converts from a certain category of people. So far north in Nociva, however, they are a minuscule minority catapulted to outsized fame by recent events.
It says 10/12 for that new language. Unfortunately, I just don't have it in me to write from that perspective who can't speak properly; although a lot of people around Geln still use words he doesn't yet understand, just.. kind of assume he can currently speak League Tongue well enough, and can almost read at a basic level.
Geln is both smart and witty, but thankfully not full of himself. (Only a little full of himself). If he wants to be, he's pretty easy to get along with.
To Ixcala!
You have at least two days, probably three, to vote.
Questions always welcome.
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